Forged
by almighty-smiley
Summary: Upon finding out just what the Empire does with the weapons he designed to keep Imperial citizens safe, weapons contractor Ton Stark strikes back with a vengeance, taking on the Imperial war machine with nothing but his brains, his protocol droid, and a few upgraded designs of his own...
1. Chapter 1

Oh, the brass was out in force tonight.

When Ton Stark had called to hold a meeting with his Imperial liason following a breakthrough in his weapons development program, he figured it would be a simple thing to accomplish; Colonel Ganti would look over the documents pertaining to the weapon's capabilities, blueprints, discuss payment plans, and shake hands as if they actually liked each other's company. But no. Colonel Ganti had instead decided to bring what had to be every regional governor in the sector to Stark's private skyhook for a demonstration of the device. Fourteen of them! Fourteen high-ranking Imperial officers representing the Army and the Navy had come to this little patch of space in geosynchronous orbit over Corellia's capital of Coronet, all to see what one of their premier weapons designers had coughed up.

"I don't know, Jay," Ton said, securing the jacket's final button and running his fingers through his slick black hair, "I always thought silver was more your color than mine".

"Possibly, sir. But as you are scheduled to demonstrate your latest design in less than ten minutes, an adequate change of clothes is not an option."

Ever the optimist, Ton thought to himself. J-3PO was the average protocol droid in many respects. He was polite to a fault, had silver-colored coverings that were polished to an almost garish degree, and had exactly none of the disrespect for long shots that Ton and every other Corellian like him had come to nurture. Ton was half tempted to drag his wardrobe with him and change suits every five seconds just to spite the robot, and reconsidered only when he remembered that fourteen representatives of the Galactic Empire were practically on his doorstep, wondering just what Colonel Ganti had been on about. A new weapons program that would suit both branches of the military? Practically unlimited applications? A per-unit cost that would make the Emperor himself write out the order? Even for the brilliant Ton Stark, that was almost laughable. In fact, it was only _because_ the idea had been brought up by the brilliant Ton Stark that Imperial brass was taking the proposal with even a modicum of seriousness. To get fourteen of them to show up, Ganti must have either pulled some major strings or cancelled whatever appointments Imperial officials had on the greenputt course. Whatever the case was, Ton Stark was going to deliver.

"I always do."

"I'm sorry, sir?"

"Nevermind, Jay, just talking to myself. Thinking…hey, go let our guests in, would you? Offer them a drink or something."

"They are, sir. I tried, sir. They said they were on duty."

"…on duty."

Ton turned to face Jay, his eyes taking on a whole new fear altogether. On duty? The brass? Good grief, they _were_ taking this seriously after all. He wasn't planning to waste their time, by any stretch, but the fact that they'd turned down a simple glass of brandy was troubling. The last time Ton had made a weapons demonstration, the presence of the lone officer there was less genuine curiosity and more drunken buffoonery (insofar as the good Lieutenant – now Commander – Wester had been allowed, anyway). This, so far as Stark's knowledge went, was not how the brass was supposed to operate.

"On duty on duty on duty. Crap. Okay, tell you what, go ahead and bring that brandy in here."

"Of course, sir. Might I inquire as to why? It hardly seems appropriate."

"Oh, just so I can crack it on the bow of my new yacht before she leaves dry dock and fly away happy as a bir – _no_, it's not appropriate, but it's necessary, okay? Go. Fetch. Good droid."

Jay tilted his head, much like a curious pup would have done. Ton was rubbing his sweaty forehead with his palm by the time the blasted droid finally turned to leave the room and retrieve the brandy. J-3PO had been programmed with all of the tenets of Coruscant high culture as part of his etiquette protocols. This meant that, among other things, he wouldn't have really appreciated the finer points of his master's position. Namely, that Stark wasn't nearly prepared to deal with a handful of Imperial higher-ups, let alone a handful of Imperial higher-ups that would be poring over whatever he brought to the table. But more than it spooked him, it irked him. Smart and sound as his designs were, Stark hadn't been anything important to the Empire before. Why this renewed interest? If the deal went through, then sure, no reason to complain and all would be right with the galaxy again. But the last time he had come under that kind of scrutiny, everyone was; the declaration of the Empire's formation had not gone over smoothly in the Corellian System. He had been younger then, with no real way of coping with the sudden paradigm shift.

Fortunately, twenty years on, he now did. And he used any excuse he could find to "cope" as best he knew how.

* * *

"It'll be good. It always is."

Whether Colonel Ganti had said that to assure his thirteen colleagues sitting around the glossy wooden table or to convince himself he wasn't wasting everybody's time was unknown even to him. Ganti – balding, wrinkling, and slowly bloating as he reached his old age – was often certain about his hunches. Such certainty had helped him climb the ranks in the Imperial Army. Such certainty had earned him the respect of his soldiers and his comrades. But now such certainty was being put to the test. Even with Stark's flawless product record, even with his astounding mechanical competence, the billionaire's ego may have finally come home to bite him in the ass. The be-all and end-all of infantry warfare, he'd called it.

"The be-all and end-all of infantry warfare, you said he'd called it."

Sitting at the other end of the ornately-designed wroshyr table, dressed in the stark white medaled uniform that went with his position, Grand Admiral Olin Candar made his distaste clear. He was everything the older Colonel was not, despite being similar in age; in shape, tight-skinned, and had a full head of dark gray hair and a well-trimmed beard that matched the gray uniforms of his naval subordinates almost perfectly. Unlike Ganti, Candar had little respect for intuition or gut feelings, and he was all too happy to speak on the subject whenever he got the chance.

"Colonel," said Candar, smiling and lightly shaking his head to feign respect for the colonel's instinctual viewpoint, "nobody here can argue that Stark's contributions to the military have been bad. But he's saying – and by extension, _you're_ saying – that he just won the war for us. Did he show you any specs, any blueprints, diagnostic data?"

"No, Grand Admiral, he did not."

"So we're all taking time out of our schedules to witness…what, exactly?"

Ganti had to concede that Candar had a point. Despite his personal conviction, Stark had brought nothing to the table apart from a promise. Which, to a man like Ganti, meant a great deal; twenty years ago, the clones under his command had been unfailingly honest and ready to deliver on any order or challenge. In Stark, the old colonel saw a similar conviction, albeit negatively tempered by wealth and excess. Stark was often not in a position to give his word on anything, usually gallivanting with loose young women or being entirely too drunk to stand. But when he _did_ give his word, he gave it with the confidence and certainty that Colonel Ganti had only ever heard from people that had been specially bred to have such a trait.

But such sentimentality would not go over well with his colleagues, least of all Grand Admiral Candar.

"To be fair," chimed Captain Killen Pord, a short and dark-skinned man that had only recently been given command authority, "Stark's track record is a good deal better than some of our private contractors. His amplification units on the DS-1 orbital station far surpassed our expectations."

"Which fired exactly one time," said Admiral Ward Burke, Pord's senior officer, "on a derelict prison asteroid slated for destruction anyway. The station was destroyed before the systems could be properly stressed. For all we know, Captain, they might've blown a gasket on the second run. We don't have the data from the DS-1 to confirm or deny anything."

"Gentlemen, we could go back and forth on Stark's previous contributions all day," said Candar, taking back control of the tableside chatter, "but the fact is we're here because Colonel Ganti had a gut feeling. Had this been an actual military situation…"

Ganti had to keep from rolling his eyes, and he was not the only one. Sensing the Grand Admiral was about to go into another of his famous lectures about the perils of instinct, at least five others in the room apart from himself were fully ready to tune out, secretly wishing the same Grand Admiral hadn't insisted they weren't allowed to drink at this meeting when the door into the wood-lined meeting room slid open, revealing Ton Stark's silver protocol droid. The blue-photoreceptored machine bowed as low as his limited body would allow him to before addressing the gathered officers.

"Good day, gentlemen. I am J-3PO, human-cyborg relations. Master Stark is almost done with the final preparations, and I am to escort you to our gardens for the demonstration. But before I do, are you sure I cannot offer you some refreshment?"

Saved by the Coruscanti-accented service machine. Candar, who was the only one fully prepared to speak, once again spoke for the entirety of the group. The six men who had almost rolled their eyes redoubled their efforts. Pord failed, having not quite gotten used to higher command, but Ganti – having been the only one to catch the error in etiquette – would be damned if he snapped at the younger man for a mistake anybody could make.

"Thank you, J-3PO, but no. You may bring us there now."

Arrogant and calculating as he was, Ganti couldn't fault the Grand Admiral's manners. In all the years he'd known Candar, he hadn't once heard of him so much as raising his voice to someone under his command or beneath his station, let alone treat them with any disrespect. Even on the rare occasions he met with aliens – Twi'lek dancing girls, Bith entertainers, all the way down to Wookiee slaves – Candar had been nothing but charming. Candar's bedside manner was almost as legendary as his distaste for instinct, and was probably one of the main reasons he wore a pristine white uniform instead of a gray one. Any other officer in the room would have treated the droid as a tool, a public address system with legs. But not the most senior officer. Not Candar.

Offering another bow, J-3PO turned to walk out of the meeting room, the Imperials standing from their chairs and trailing behind him.

* * *

The meeting room had been impressive; a table and chairs carved from Kashyyyk wood, with the walls lined with panels of the same. A single large monitor was set up on the far end of the room, with a holoprojector inlaid into the table to display whatever the meeting called for. Ambient lighting lined the ceiling, allowing for visual comfort and easy adjustment. It was exactly the sort of thing, in short, that one would expect a billionaire's meeting room to be.

But luxurious as it was, the gardens blew it away entirely.

For starters, it was massive; on the uppermost deck of the skyhook, it took up more than half of the circular platform's diameter. The walking paths were inlaid with stone bought from the finest-quality quarries, weaving intricate designs through and between the exotic flora that lined the area. Smack in the center was a sizeable gazebo that would not have looked out of place in Naboo's lake country, towering over all of the plants and statues save for a single truly massive flower on the far side of the green circle. And above it all was a transparisteel dome that perfectly caught far-flung star systems in its seamless view.

"Gentlemen," said J-3PO after a short time, now holding a sleek datapad in his right hand, "if I could direct you to the gazebo in the center, we can begin our presentation. Please follow me."

The Imperial commanders made their way through the gardens to the ornate stone centerpiece, where fourteen leather-padded chairs lining the circumference of the gazebo awaited them. Obviously not a part of the standard décor; Stark had clearly poured a lot of time and credits into this section of his skyhook, and even the least fashion-savvy of the Imperials knew that black leather clashed with tan stone. The chairs had been placed there specifically for today's demonstration, as were the viewscreens that had been somewhat haphazardly attached to the left armrest of each seat. As each man took their seat, the chairs automatically spun around to face the garden.

"Colonel Ganti," said Admiral Burke," you said this was a weapons demonstration?"

"That's what Stark seemed to imply, yes."

"…in his _garden_."

"It would appear so, Admiral."

"Oh, I do not like where this is going…"

The next voice to speak came in from each chair's respective viewscreen, loud enough to cause Admiral Burke to jump in his seat.

"_Y'know, I was gonna go ahead and do this in the guest hangar, but there are a bunch of ships in there. Didn't wanna scuff 'em_."

Ton Stark came in loud and clear, insofar as his slurred speech would allow. A throwaway joke only he found funny, a cavalier attitude towards his audience's ranks and positions, and a fairly unorthodox entrance. Few others in the Empire would've had the gall to pull it off. But then again, few others in the Empire could get quite as intoxicated as Ton Stark could.

"Mr. Stark, always a pleasure," said Grand Admiral Candar in a tone that betrayed only the slightest hint of his almost palpable annoyance, "I hear you have something to show us."

"_And you heard correctly, Grand Admiral! Allow me to show you how you're about to win this little tussle with the Rebellion_."

"Sir," said Candar, almost losing the veneer of politeness entirely, "I would hardly call a full-scale civil war a 'tussle'."

"_And you'd be absolutely right. I was going somewhere with that…I forgot…_"

Grand Admiral Candar took a deep breath and abruptly stood from his seat. Striding forward, he had almost left the gazebo's bottom-most step when he saw the viewscreens turn on out of the corner of his eye. The camera angle was coming from space, and in the small screen he could see himself in stunning detail; crisp white uniform, dark gray hair, and golden epaulettes all. Had he been lying flat, Candar might have believed he could pick out the individual medals adorning his chest. As he raised his arm to his side – to which the smaller version of him mirrored in almost perfect synchronization – the camera zoomed out. Slowly, the entirety of the gazebo came into view. The gazebo was followed by the entirety of the garden. The garden was followed in turn by the entirety of the skyhook's top deck. And still it continued to zoom out, going further and further until the skyhook itself took up – at most – ten percent of the screen, hanging lazily in the bottom left corner.

"_So…this is where I am. A good few dozen kilometers upward. Some of you might recognize this location as sp-space, I don't know_."

The camera angle turned, removing the skyhook from the picture entirely and giving a good panoramic view of Corellia before turning towards space once again, where five near-invisible specks quickly grew larger in size and speed, clearly racing towards the camera.

"_Aaaaaaaaaand some of you might recognize those as Phlac-Arphocc Automata Industries tri-fighters. Let me tell you guys, an absolute bitch to find and restore. And if anybody asks, Jay's got the permits for those suckers on hand if you wanna give 'em a l_-"

Stark was interrupted by the droid fighters screaming straight past him, which gave pause to his drunken rambling.

"…_oh, sonuvabitch," _Stark said, speaking barely above a whisper, "_they're headed straight for you, aren't they?"_

At once, the camera turned to face the now rapidly-departing droids. There was a sound – something like a great machine taking a deep breath – and then what sounded like a small explosion. The camera lurched forward in response, matching pace with the droids in seconds. The skyhook grew larger and larger, a fact that did not go unnoticed by most of the Imperials. Still standing in the gazebo's threshold, Candar looked up through the transparisteel dome, barely able to make out the droids headed their way. For a brief moment, his mind flashed back to Coruscant twenty years ago. Then-Chancellor Palpatine had been captured. The bulk of the Republic fleet was over the planet, battling it out with General Grievous's warships. Skywalker and Kenobi had been personally called in to rescue the Republic's head of state. And these tri-fighters had been _everywhere_. Candar quickly snapped out of it, of course; it was a weapons demonstration, and if Stark had gotten a permit then the droids would have obviously had to be disarmed as part of protocol. But the Grand Admiral would have been remiss if he denied that – for however brief a moment – he feared Stark was pathologically insane in addition to being a drunken fop.

"_Jay, go ahead and mark the targets, would you? Let's start this party_."

Nodding his head slightly, J-3PO raised his free hand and tapped lightly on the datapad he was holding. At once, red squares formed around the tri-fighters and a small blue circle formed in the bottom left corner of the screen indicating the droids' position in relation to Stark's own, a small number immediately to its right indicating that the tracker was set for an even ten kilometers. As if in response, whatever Stark was flying whirred and clicked, and a semi-circle of dark metal made up of a series of cylinders took up a small portion of the screen's right side.

Colonel Ganti and the other Army representatives recognized the shape immediately. Multiple barrels. A ring on the end to keep them from flying apart mid-firing. Whatever Stark was demonstrating was packing a Z-6 rotary blaster cannon. Ganti looked to his fellow Army officers with a pang of regret. Stark had truly gone off the deep end; the Z-6 was one hell of an anti-infantry weapon, no doubt. But they simply didn't have the punch to break through any but the weakest of starfighter-grade shields.

There was a loud burst from the viewscreens and a series of fast-paced streaks of red light from the gun, and a tri-fighter instantly exploded, causing the other four drones to immediately break into groups of two and split off. Widening his eyes in surprise, Ganti returned his attention to his screen, no longer worried for Stark's design choice. Tri-fighters had no shields, but they were very solidly-built for interceptors. Blaster fire didn't do much to durasteel except score it somewhat, and even a Z-6 wouldn't have been able to pierce most hulls. If Stark had modified one to punch through a fast-moving durable target with ease, then perhaps he wasn't nearly as mad as he briefly feared he was.

Grand Admiral Candar, however, was still not convinced. Eyes still glued to the dome as the remains of a tri-fighter smashed against it and back into space, he saw what must have been a torpedo streak off in pursuit of a pair of droids. Small and narrow, with a bright blue exhaust flame? It had to be some kind of guided missile. Or perhaps another type of droid fighter. If it was going to be as effective for the Army as it appeared to be for the Navy, then perhaps it had variable geometry to it, not unlike the old Vulture-class droids? While Candar wouldn't have been able to say he was convinced, saying the demonstration didn't have his attention and curiosity would have been an outright lie.

Another burst of red streaks was followed by an audible explosion just above the skyhook's garden as another tri-fighter was destroyed by Stark's mystery weapon, followed by a noise that was somewhere between a shriek and a hiss. Soon after, another met its fate near the guest hangar. Stark pulled upward to fly parallel to the skyhook, the camera seeing nothing but the depth of space.

"_Now gentlemen, if you aren't wowed outta your seats at all that, allow me to direct your attention to the radar readout. Two tri-fighters on my tail, some ninety meters and closing…_"

The more attentive members of the gathering saw the cannon swerve out of sight with the whirring of servos. While not visible, there was an audible click and the rapid-fire of the gun. One of the red triangles on the radar screen blipped out of existence.

"…_one tri-fighter on my tail…_"

Another blast of fire, and the radar display was clear of hostiles.

"…_no tri-fighters on my tail. Let the bastards at Sienar beat THAT._"

Colonel Ganti smirked to himself. Sienar _had_, in fact, tried to replicate that very capability with their TIE Aggressor program. But that had required a ship-grade weapon (which meant ship-grade cost) and a whole other pilot. Ganti and his thirteen compatriots had just seen it done by one man with an infantry weapon. Looking around, the old solider saw expressions of glee, excitement, and wonderment adorn the faces of the Imperial officers. Even Grand Admiral Candar, standing at the edge of the gazebo, was nodding in acknowledgment.

Intuition, it appeared, was having its day.

"_Gentlemen, for your consideration, the Variable Threat Response Platform. I call it…uh…Jay, help?_"

"You've yet to give the weapon a production nickname, sir," said J-3PO, speaking almost directly to his datapad, "although I have heard you sugge-"

"_Yeah, yeah, that's nice. Lower the shields in the main hangar and bring our boys in uniform down there, I've got a bladder to empty and a deal to finish._"

The viewscreens cut to black as the transmission ended.


	2. Chapter 2

As the turbolift descended to the main hangar bay, all but a few of the gathered Imperial officers were ready and willing to sign the order for whatever it was they had just seen. Colonel Ganti had been impressed with the display, but hadn't seen anything that pointed to infantry utility as Stark had promised. Admiral Burke was worried – as he always was – about how much this so-called solution would cost. And Grand Admiral Candar, upon review, was far from impressed; it was a lot of spectacle and he had to respect the ability of a man who had not only solved a major dogfighting problem, but at the end of the day it was just a drunken rich kid blowing up a few pre-programmed drones in the most audaciously expensive way he knew how.

Had the demonstration been even vaguely similar to a real combat scenario, Candar's opinion would be markedly different. If Stark's in-flight commentary was to be believed, he had done that himself in an impossibly small craft with exactly zero regard to sense or sobriety. Candar was more than curious to see what the Empire's best and brightest pilots could do with it. Even if it was an unmanned craft – which, given the size of the thing he saw, the Grand Admiral was firmly convinced it was – it was remarkably fast and very well-armed for its size. But tri-fighters were hardly acceptable targets. Unshielded, large profiles, and dumber than the average Imperial ground pounder if what he saw was any indication. Candar would have loved to see them in a real fight. But as it stood, he could not in good conscience sign off on an order based on what he'd seen so far.

The turbolift doors opened to a wide and clean hangar. J-3PO led the group through, making them pass through Stark's collection of ships. A SoroSuub PLY-3000 to the right. Next to it, a Horizon-class yacht. On the other side of the hangar, a sleek and silver vessel that could have only been crafted by the Nubian Design Collective. The walls of the hangar were lined with luxury airspeeders, accessible by catwalks.

And at the far end, striding towards the group, was the "torpedo" Candar had seen waste a tri-fighter.

The droid marched forward in perfect strides, the Z-6 blaster cannon folded away behind it. It was small by battle droid standards, but incredibly well-armored. It was made of black metal, save for the occasional section of dark gray plating, with additions to the gauntlets jutting out of the forearms, revealing more blaster technology. Flanking its head were two rectangular extensions of the breastplate which seemed to protect and already well-armored neck. And smack in the middle of the chest was a circle of bright blue light, which was matched by similar circles in the palms and in the visors of the helmet, which looked not too dissimilar from a TIE pilot's helmet in design. It stopped right in front of the Imperial commanders and executed a perfect salute with a small clink as metal hit metal.

With a small hiss the dark gray faceplate popped forward slightly and slid upward, revealing a _very_ drunk Ton Stark.

"Ta-daaaaa…"

The Imperials' collective jaws hit the floor. A _suit_? A drunken billionaire had taken out five starfighters in a _suit_?! This had gone well beyond any of their expectations. Something that small, packing that much firepower, operated by a trained pilot? Stark was right; that _could_ turn the tide of the war firmly back into Imperial favor, if there were enough of them. So far as most of them were concerned, there didn't need to be. Once word spread how a single machine had routed an entire Rebel platoon, the war would practically be won. After all, how could any force repel a soldier – let alone a legion – with the sort of capability Stark had all but proved he could give them?

"A very nice display, Mr. Stark. I think I speak for all of us when I say I'm very thoroughly impressed."

Grand Admiral Candar extended his hand, wearing a smile that did not reach his eyes. Ton looked down at it for a moment before reaching forward and shaking it heartily, purposefully not noticing the Imperial naval officer wince as a vice-like grip clamped down on his extremity.

"As well you _oughta_ be, Grand Admiral. This baby's gonna win you the war by next Life Day."

"I'm sure," said Candar, retracting his hand and putting his arms behind his back, "but while my colleagues may be willing to make a sale here and now, there are a few things I want to know. Namely, the suit's full complement and specifications."

Stark looked at Candar with glazed-over eyes. "Uh, right now?" he asked.

"Would you prefer I wait and reconsider our interest in your design?"

That got Stark's attention. Almost instantly, the weapons designer's eyes lost their gaze and the drool on his bearded lips seemed to vanish. Stark's face matched his stance in its staunchness and firmness as he recited the suit's specifications from memory, fueled by an abstract fear of embarrassing himself in front of prospective buyers.

"Alusteel plating, painted to match the color scheme of current Imperial starfighters and capable of withstanding heavy blaster fire. Z-6 rotary blaster cannon mounted to an automated track. Modular mounting system for weapons on the shoulder track and gauntlets. Miniature repulsorlift for mobility. Miniature Rylith power cells for energy needs. Built-in tibanna gas magazines fed through the suit for extra ammunition. Gauss repulsors as flight thrusters, boosters, and stabilizers. Targeting AI capable of full 360 degree awarene-"

"Excuse me, I'm so sorry," interrupted Candar, "but you said something about 'gauss repulsors'? Do clarify that, it doesn't sound familiar."

Stark smiled. "That's because," he began, "it's prototype technology. Designed specifically for this project. As you _miiiight_ understand, slapping even a single fighter engine on a frame this small's a pain in everyone's ass. So my company's think tank looked around, saw the average gauss cannon and thought 'Hrm, that looks like a lot of power being shot out of a barrel there'. So what we did was just made it _reeeeeeeal_ tiny, made it computer-adjustable, and played with inertial dampeners until it worked."

"So why is there one on the chest?" Candar inquired, reaching out to run his finger along the rim of the circle, noting that it felt fairly cool to the touch for being a recently-deactivated starfighter thruster.

"I told you about the repulsorlift, but it's too weak to both keep the thing in the air and assist in maneuvering. The chest thruster is there to keep her goin' where gravity's gonna be a problem."

Ton's face formed a smile that could only be given by a true drunkard, feeling quite proud of himself. The gauss repulsor had been a revolution in propulsion technology, and he and his design team were the only ones to know of its existence. Even _if_ the Grand Admiral chose not to order their latest design in bulk, the company could probably break even on the thrusters _alone_. Of course, Ton made no mention that it was a secondary addition to the prototype. The first design had lacked a thruster on the chest, and was quite a remarkable failure. Ton's smile faded for the briefest of moments as he remembered how very not pretty the "landing" had been.

"I see…"

Candar's voice snapped Stark back to the present moment. The Grand Admiral was rubbing his heavily-bearded chin, squinting as he eyed the armored device up and down.

"Well, Mr. Stark, I can't say I'm completely convinced. Having said that, however, I suppose we _could_ field one or two as a trial run for future investments."

Behind him, Candar could feel the entire assembly of officers go deathly silent. There was a paralyzing fear in their hearts, and it had nothing to do with playing a hard bargain with a drunk weapons tycoon. Ever since it came to light what had happened a few months ago at Yavin, that same fear had permeated practically every Imperial serviceman and servicewoman that the Grand Admiral had met. The Rebels were _not_ just a bunch of ragtag scrappers anymore. Reports and rumors varied as to what precisely happened, but the dust had mostly settled, and the truth had been allowed to shine its brightest; the Alliance had destroyed the DS-1 Orbital Station. If such a group was willing and able to extinguish millions of lives in an instant on a station that was supposedly invincible, then did they even stand a chance anymore? Fielding the largest navy and army in galactic history meant exactly nothing if any of them could suddenly explode. Each and every officer standing behind the Grand Admiral was scared stiff of the possibilities, and were looking for something – _anything_ – to turn the tide.

And as Ton mulled his proposition over, letting drool drip from the corner of his mouth in the process, Candar had to silently confess his own fear. Unlike many of his compatriots, he knew full well what the DS-1 was capable of. He knew that the Alliance hadn't done anything more than exploit a critically stupid design flaw with an admittedly brilliant strategy. He now feared the Alliance not because they blew up a massive battle station, but because they had done so in a way that spoke to true tactical intelligence. And while Candar too wanted something to turn the tide, he was not about to let his fear overrule his judgment and make a bad call in the mere _hope_ that something would change. If he was to throw in his lot with Stark, he wanted assurance. Unfortunately, assurance was not something he would get if he did not at least bend a little.

"Well…I guess we could do that, Grand Admiral, if we gotta."

"Good. If you transmit the contract for a trial to my personal assistant aboard my shuttle, I will have your fee in your company's account by the time I reach my ship."

Candar got to see the capabilities of the weapon in a live combat situation. Stark got a tidy sum of credits that would all but assure his continued compliance. And the officers got the hope they had wanted since the symbol of the Emperor's might was blown asunder.

The Grand Admiral smiled to himself as he walked past his compatriots and to his shuttle on the other side of the station. Victories all around.


	3. Chapter 3

Ton's announcement that they had secured the contract was met with loud cheers from the office. Bottles upon bottles of champagne lied in buckets of ice, cubicles had been dismantled and desks had been moved, and everyone was at least a 4 on the 0-to-Stark scale of drunkenness. Standing atop a makeshift stage where a music jockey had set up shop and was ready to rip, Ton Stark stood with a microphone in his hand, the silver suit he had picked out earlier draping his body as only a tailored suit could, his cheeks every bit as rosy as they had been when he shook hands with the Grand Admiral to seal the deal.

It hadn't been the deal he'd been gunning for, in all fairness; twelve units, to be used as a test squadron under the Grand Admiral's personal supervision. But it was a start. And everyone in his office knew it was going to be a long shot even during the drawing board stages; the Empire preferred cheap, tried, and true. At the end of the day, the gamble had paid off, and it was worth celebrating with the people who had made it possible.

"So, it's a good damned day to be us," said Stark into the microphone, whose words were met with cheers from the gathered crowd, "and I wanted to come up here, thank each and every one of you for making this thing happen. Eliana, our main AI designer, seriously, top notch stuff," he said as he pointed right at the short young woman with the extravagant and multicolored haircut, "Dav, the brilliant son of a bitch behind most of the physical innovations, well done", he said as the tall man with the short brown hair and black-rimmed spectacles waved back at him with a big toothy grin, "Jecib, Vidalu, Raan, Cao, all of you, seriously.

"We've gone ahead and practically won the war for these guys, give yourselves a _big_ round of applause, and as the CEO of this corporation, I'm expressly forbidding anybody to leave this office sober! Enjoy the night!"

Met with one last loud cheer as he stepped off the stage and let the emcee blast the tunes, Stark tilted the near-empty glass in his hand upward, feigning disappointment as a few drops spilled out onto the floor beneath him. The crowd was far denser than he had anticipated; he knew for a fact that only half as many people actually _worked_ in this part of the tower, and while he did not particularly care – a party's a party, after all, and everyone involved with the recent contract deserved to celebrate together – it made maneuvering through the wall-to-wall mass of people somewhat troublesome, particularly when the imported champagne was on the far side of the room. Jay was already waddling about with a tray, and taking him off-duty for his own wants wouldn't be fair to his workers who deserved to get every bit as sloshed. And as it followed, if Stark wasn't going to ask a robot to help him out, he certainly wasn't about to pull rank and have one of his employees get it for him.

Stark grunted as he pushed through the dancing crowd, wondering why he hadn't simply hired staff for this exact problem.

The billionaire had refilled his ornate glass and turned around, only to find his blue-photoreceptored silver protocol droid staring blankly at him, strangely not holding a tray full of odd and exotic concoctions.

"Sir, I need a moment of your time."

Raising his eyebrows in surprise and slowly nodding, Stark followed Jay away from the drinks table and into a less-densely populated hallway where people chose to mingle and flirt instead of dance. As they neared the turbolift on the far end of the hall, the pair took a right and went up a slight flight of stairs to reach Stark's private office. It must have been serious; while Jay was not programmed to be particularly emotional, it was rare that he could say something with his mass-produced vocoder that would sound so deathly serious. And Jay knew his master quite well; pulling him away from a party to discuss work-related issues was almost certain to get him resold at best. Stepping aside to let Stark into his office – itself incredibly sparse compared to his skyhook, despite the abundance of space – Jay wasted no time in getting down to the matter at hand.

"Sir, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I've been notified of an unidentified third party attempting to access the company's bank account."

Stark looked into his champagne and sighed, pulling the glass to his lips and taking a large gulp of the stuff before looking at Jay as though he'd just said the single dumbest thing Stark had ever heard. And in a sense, he had.

"Jay," said Stark, approaching the protocol droid and clapping him on the shoulder, "Jay, Jay Jay…I told the boys down in R & D to go ahead and get themselves whatever they liked. Seriously. Memo and everything. Not exactly the most…_sociable_ types, y'know? Figured they'd just have a little shindig in their labs, and I told them to dip into the account for whatever they wanted to celebrate."

"But sir, that seems highly irres-"

"Only because it totally was. But c'mon, Jay. You have got to – _got to_ – learn to have faith in people."

* * *

"Faith is not a concept I put much stock in, Second Lieutenant. Can you breach the firewalls or not?"

Grand Admiral Candar spoke gently but frankly, not taking his eyes away from the beautiful planet before him. On the other end of the line, the most tech-savvy member of his crew was punching through Stark's company's security protocols with all the precision and deftness expected of an officer in the Imperial Navy. And from what Candar understood, his only mistake thus far had been asking the Grand Admiral to have faith in his ability.

"_Yes, sir. It's just civilian-grade, after all. If it weren't for the cyclical encryptions, I'd be in by now_."

"Just let me know when we're in, son."

"_Yes, sir_."

Candar clicked his comlink off and resumed gazing at the planet. The second lieutenant on the other line currently breaking into Stark's funds was talented, to be sure – a good pilot, excellent with computers, keen tactical judgment – but he placed entirely too much faith in his comrades. As far as the Grand Admiral was concerned, everyone in the service had to operate as though they were alone. One's wingman may miss a shot that he or she had been lined up for. One's navigator may have misplaced a decimal. One's janitor may have used the wrong type of cleaning fluid, even. When left to their own devices, people had the chance to fail regardless of their skill set, and as such one had to learn to be totally independent. As such, the Grand Admiral insisted on hearing every report and being kept in the loop of every action aboard his vessel, no matter how trivial it seemed.

It was a trait he did his best to instill into his crew as well. When operating as a team, people tended to let others pick up for their slack, even in the Imperial Navy. But when operating by their lonesome, knowing that blame could very well be placed squarely on their own head, people worked harder than they might think themselves capable of. Productivity, near-certainty of a good result, and assurance that people would stay in line and do their duty. It was an efficient system, if nothing else.

And efficiency was precisely what was needed for the current operation. The order had been sent from the Emperor himself, almost as soon as he had gotten word that the order had been placed; secure the company's assets and eliminate Ton Stark however he saw fit. And while he did not question the order openly, Candar had his reservations. What if the suits were sufficiently damaged? What if an upgrade was needed? They'd have Stark's funds, workers, and resources at their disposal, to be sure, but they wouldn't have _Stark_. Anybody who had seen the workforce he commanded and met the man personally would know that he was the brains of the operation despite the generous intelligence of his think tank. Nobody in that company, let alone in the galaxy, would be able to troubleshoot and update the Variable Threat Response Platform quite like Stark would be able to. Even putting aside his sound designs and obvious intelligence scores, Candar's brief time in Stark's hangar told him what nothing else could; the man took great care of his machines. From what the Grand Admiral could tell, there wasn't even a speck of dust on the highest airspeeder, and every last starship had been polished to shine; particularly, the Nubian craft had been almost blinding. Any man that paid that much attention to machinery he didn't even use was going to spot potential problems and identify potential solutions well before anybody on the massive white warship would be able to.

Candar stroked his beard, mulling the situation over. Ton Stark had to be taken out of the picture, without question. Emperor Palpatine had expressly commanded it, for reasons he did not elaborate on. But at the same time, Stark's intellect and insight were far too valuable to simply cast aside. Off the top of his head, Candar knew of several prisons he could send Stark to. Dathomir was an option. The holding facilities in Bestine, over on Tatooine, were serviceable enough, and if they locked the starport down as per protocol, then the only place he'd have to flee to was the endless desert. If Stark wasn't so well-connected in the Core, Candar might have even considered the _Lusankya_. Decisions, decisions…

As his comlink chimed, Candar let the decision hang in the air. There was work to be done.

"Yes?"

"_Sir, the firewalls have been breached. We're in and ready to sipho_n."

"That won't be necessary, Second Lieutenant. Just give us control, we don't need to empty it out."

"_Right away, sir_."

The funds were all but secure. Time to move to phase two. Changing the comlink's channel, Grand Admiral Candar raised the device to his lips and spoke, allowing the next portion of his carefully-laid plan to go through.

* * *

"Jay, I'm telling you, we're insured for every credit. Even _if_ someone wanted to rob us blind, you really think they'd get past security? They need, like, eighty different passwords to get through."

"Only two passcodes are necessary for the extraction of the comp-"

Ton threw his hands into the air. Jay was hopeless. The money was technically his, wasn't it? It was in Jay's programming to be concerned for the company's general state of affairs, but this was just him being needlessly thorough about the whole deal. If it was really that bad, he'd look into it himself. But for now, any buzz he had going from closing a major deal had been thoroughly sapped. And if he was completely frank, the entire conversation was starting to piss him off. The protocol droid's heart…battery…_whatever_ was in the right place, but this was far from the right time.

"Jay, go back to serving drinks, you're much more helpful that way."

"But sir!"

"Just. Go."

Jay turned around, muttering to himself and shaking his head as he moved out of the office. Ton followed suit, gulping down what was left of his drink before turning to face the large window. Coronet sprawled before him, seemingly endless both horizontally and vertically. Kilometers upon kilometers of city spread out in all directions, while a quick glance downward would remind Ton that his office was a good two hundred levels above the paved streets below. And even down there, bright lights and airspeeders zipped about through the night. Coronet never really slept. It was the planet's crown jewel, and it was every bit as lively out there as it was a few steps away.

"Knock, knock."

The voice coming through the door was far more sultry than it had any right to be. Ton whipped around, only to be faced with a bombshell in a tight black dress and elbow-length silk gloves. The woman was Human and had a fine set of lush, elbow-length blond hair and an hourglass figure, wearing a dangerous smirk on a pair of ruby-colored lips that had spoken in an accent Ton couldn't quite place. She wasn't one of his employees, Ton knew that for sure; he'd have remembered such a gorgeous creature moving to and fro in his building.

"And who," replied Ton, sliding a hand through his jet black hair, "would be doing the knocking?"

The woman laughed softly, swirling a glass full of deep red wine as she moved her free hand behind her, pressing the button that let the office door slide shut and lock. "I don't think that's how the joke goes, Mr. Stark," she said, "but my name is Allura."

"Allura." Her name rolled over Ton's tongue like a fine Vasarian brandy. Ton watched as she approached him, trying to listen for angels singing as the mysterious woman walked his way. When she reached an arm's distance, she held out the glass in her hand, letting a bright pair of baby blues lock with Ton's green eyes. Green eyes which, if the man was honest with himself, simply couldn't get enough of the newcomer.

"Your droid," she said, playfully worried, "he won't be coming back, will he?"

"Baby, Jay's a good droid to me, but if he shows his perpetually-downbeat face in here right now, I'll send him to the scrap heap personally."

Ton stared at Allura, running a hand over her barely-covered shoulder and inching her towards him as she smirked at him once again. It was known that Ton enjoyed drink; his actions while drunk ranged from the obnoxious to the criminally insane. But only slightly lesser-known was Ton's weakness for beautiful women. And in his never-ending quest for a late night rendezvous, it seemed that only his own employees were immune from his lustful gaze. Truly, if a woman was beautiful, humanoid, and cultured, then odds were good that she could expect to run into the suave and brilliant Ton Stark at some point. Odds were even better that he'd be slobbering drunk and trying to cop a feel anywhere he could move his hands to.

Allura, however, didn't seem to mind. Instead, she simply pulled away slightly, just enough to let Ton get a full view of her figure once more before she raised her glass, half-inviting the billionaire to take it from her.

"To your continued success, then?"

Ton smiled as he gently pulled the glass from her, raising it and nodding before taking a sip of the stuff. It didn't taste like any wine he'd had before, which was interesting; Ton was familiar with all the major vineyards. This wine had a bite to it he'd not experienced before. Smiling, he looked up at Allura, seeing she had taken on a wavy texture that only complemented her one-in-a-million body type. Looking beyond her for a brief second, the whole room seemed to moving in and out of focus. Ton's smile turned into a grin. He'd never felt this way before, and he felt _fantastic_! He owed this mystery woman the time of her life! And after a brief nap, he would do so, with the stars as his witness! Clapping Allura on the shoulder – or the breast, it was hard for Ton to tell anymore – Ton let his legs give out beneath him and passed out on his office floor.

Allura rolled her eyes as she stepped over Stark, moving a gloved finger to an earpiece hidden behind her thick blond hair.

"This is Letya," she said, all trace of accent gone from her voice, "I have Stark."

"_Good_," a bearded Grand Admiral hovering in orbit above the planet responded, "_your transport will be along shortly_."


	4. Chapter 4

The first thing Ton noticed when he woke up was a set of four gray walls, devoid of furnishings save for a refresher in the far corner of this strange new room and a red force field blocking the only exit. The second thing he noticed was a raging headache, which prompted him to cradle his head in one arm, as he often did when he was asleep, only to roll off of the impossibly narrow bench that this room seemed to consider a proper bed and collapse onto the metal platform that this room seemed to consider a proper floor.

"Hey, look, he's awake."

Between the fuzzy view and the muted speech he just heard, the only thing that kept Ton from thinking he was underwater was the fact that he was still breathing. Slowly starting to feel the ache that came with falling from his former sleeping position, Ton tried to push himself upright, only to be helped to a sitting position.

"Easy, friend. You've been out since you got here. Whatever they hit you with, it was potent."

Ton's view came into focus just enough to see who had helped him; an orange-skinned Twi'lek man with rugged features and stark blue eyes, giving the billionaire a warm smile to focus on. Slowly, painfully slowly, the rest of Ton's world began to come into focus. Three others stood in the far corner of the room, two male Humans and an Ithorian, all wearing far more sullen looks on their faces (so far as Ton could tell with his impaired view, having never really seen an Ithorian in such close proximity before). On instinct, and in total disregard for the Twi'lek's insistence he relax, Ton gripped the stranger's shoulder and tried to hoist himself even further upward to no avail.

"Wh-where…where am I? Where? Where am I?"

"A few clicks northeast of Kor Vella. Looks like you must've run afoul of your mighty Imperial masters, pal. What'd you do?"

"Wh-…wha?"

"Man, you're in a holding cell. Pretty soon, they're gonna load us all on a ship and send us off to Dathomir or Kessel or wherever. If they decide to not just shoot us."

Any progress Ton had made towards clear-headedness was immediately halted. A holding cell? Shot? This wasn't right. This _couldn't_ be right! It didn't even make any blasted _sense_! What had he done recently? What had he done _ever_? If some regional governor was upset about Ton's little stunt on Empire Day a few years ago, it was one hell of an odd time to seek payback. And what payback it was! This was mad. Beyond mad. Ton simply sat there, the shock overwhelming any move he might have made towards standing, let alone inquiring further into his increasingly confusing and desperate situation. He let his head fall onto the metal wall behind him, his eyes lazily focusing on a blurry orange circle on the Twi'lek's brown shirt.

A circle that, for a brief moment of visual clarity, revealed the insignia used by the galaxy's most notorious terrorist organization.

* * *

High up in orbit over Corellia, a young pilot flipped a small round disc of a holoprojector in his right hand. Sitting on his designated cot in the officer's quarters aboard theship he'd been stationed on, he rested his shaved head against the bulkhead of the vessel, feeling the massive ion engines reverberate as they were sent throughout the massive craft. Before long, the garbage would be dumped and the ship would make the jump to hyperspace. The Grand Admiral hadn't yet disclosed their location. One of his lower-ranking subordinates, however, had apparently gone and hastily made the rounds throughout the ship, giving these discs to elite pilots that were to take part in an experimental program. After a brief set of instructions, the wiry little private bolted off to deliver to the next candidate. The notion had initially bothered the pilot some. Why him? And why not just send the necessary file to him via the ship's computer network? The pilot dismissed the thoughts and let the vibrations of the Star Destroyer's movement buzz them out.

He wasn't going to complain. If it got him out of a TIE/ln, it was worth looking into.

Standing and placing the device in the center of the room – another note the courier had made in between breaths – the brown-skinned pilot turned the device on, practically flooding his bunk with blue light as a hologram shot up from the small disc. The resulting image was that of a battle droid, so far as the pilot could tell. A blueprint, more like, as there were clear lines running along the thing's individual plates that could be seen throughout the hologram. It was about his height, heavily armored, and what looked like a rotary cannon attached to its back. The first thought the pilot had was that he would _not_ want to be staring one of these things down in an alley, or even from the spoke-lined viewscreen of a TIE. His second thought was that of demotion; if experimental programs were typically reserved for elite pilots – or so the courier had said he was – then why was he being put in charge of something that had to be a UAV? And lastly, even if it _was_ a UAV, this thing was clearly an infantry unit. Why were Navy pilots being put in charge of something that was clearly geared towards ground combat?

The pilot once again tried to rest his head and let the vibration of the engines calm his mind, only to remember that he was now standing and was technically being briefed. He did his best to ignore the questions that came as a result of that decision – where pilots were briefed individually instead of as a group – and simply listened to the holoprojector as it began reciting its pre-recorded message with the voice of a computer programmed to sound vaguely feminine.

"_Hello. Thank you for your interest in the Variable Threat Response Platform, manufactured by StarkTech Inc.. This instructional device is to guide you through this unit's armament, capabilities, and suggested means of deployment as well as diagnostic data and mechanical specifications. When you are ready, please say 'Begin' loudly and clearly._"

"Uh…begin."

"_What would you like to know?_"

Great. Follow the instructions, get an answer that completely invalidated the last instruction. This was going to be a fun briefing indeed. Rolling his eyes, the pilot sighed and gave his answer.

"Gimme the specs."

"_I do not understand the command. What would you like to know?_"

"…specifications?"

At once, the hologram seemed to explode along the seams, revealing each individual armored plate, weapon, and power cell as they slowly orbited around the small disc lying on the floor.

"_The Variable Threat Response Platform is plated with alusteel, which enables it to withstand firepower up to and including large turrets such as the DF.9 anti-infantry battery without the benefit of shields. Further, each unit is powered by nine advanced Rylith power cells, stored in nine of the ten vertebrae lining the lower back of the unit. These cells greatly amplify the power of the unit's weapon system, propulsion systems, and shield generator, putting the unit's overall capability on par with most lower-tier starfighters._

"_The Variable Threat Response Platform utilizes patented StarkTech Inc. gauss repulsor technology. This revolutionary design allows the unit to reach top flight speeds of up to 110 megalights per hour. Onboard inertial dampening systems protect the pilot from hos-_"

"Wait, wait, stop. Stop."

The dark-skinned pilot had been perplexed since the hologram provided an exploded view of the Empire's new war machine. As each section highlighted with bright yellow light as the tutorial spoke about them, he couldn't help but notice that the design seemed fairly hollow for something he'd assumed to be unmanned. And when the thing had specifically used the word "pilot", he had to shut the thing up to get some breathing room. This thing wasn't a droid, it was _armor_. And the experiment was to latch pilots into these things and send them into the thick of battle; both on land and in the air if the design of the thing was any indication.

But the pilot wasn't afraid, not especially. If everything he was hearing about it was true, then anybody wearing the thing would be safer than even the best TIE pilot in any craft of their choosing. Rather, he was cautiously intrigued. With specifications like he was hearing, he had to wonder at just how the brains over at StarkTech had managed to pack it all in there. All-inclusive armor systems had not been unheard of; the Mandalorians had managed to get some of the same basic features with a combination of jetpack, flamethrower, and special brand of metal. But to be a starfighter and a heavy infantry unit all at once had been a pipe dream. And now? Safety from practically anything the Alliance could throw at him? Unbridled anti-infantry power? More maneuverability than any ship the Empire fielded?

It wouldn't mean a damn thing, the pilot figured, if anybody selected for the program hadn't been trained in infantry combat. Most Imperial pilots hadn't so much as picked up an E-11 outside of boot camp.

"Okay," said the pilot, processing the holoprojector's words, "let's talk munitions."

"_I do not understand the command. What would you like to know?_"

"Ugh. Mu-_ni_-tions…"

* * *

Had he gone mad? They threw him in a cell with _four Rebel Alliance operatives_?

Ton felt as though the hard metal floor he was resting on was sinking beneath his weight, pulling him deeper into the sanity-wrecking hell he'd found himself in. The last thing he remembered was his berating of Jay about some stupid credit access done by the research guys…no, the _last_ thing he remembered was that absolute knockout of a woman that gave him what was ranked high in the Best Drinks Ton Stark Has Ever Had In His Life category.

Of course. This was how it always started. Man has one drink too many. Man wakes up in strange place with curious bedfellows. Man has to go around the whole damn planet trying piece together what the blazes happened to him the night prior. It was practically a holovid staple in this day and age. And while Ton had done it plenty of times himself in his life, waking up in a holding cell with known terrorists was most definitely not a common happening. Whatever he had gotten up to, it had been serious. But what if he was wrong? Perhaps these guys were just troublemakers, Ton mused to himself as he continued to sink under his own weight. Maybe they were just being insensitive little pricks, parading around in Alliance memorabilia their mothers had sewn for them to make a scene or get attention. That's all. Just dumb kids doing dumb things for dumb reasons.

"Hey, Ben," said one of the humans to the Twi'lek still hovering over Ton, "you know how many from the other patrol got away?"

"No. When the chicken walkers opened fire, I scattered same as everyone. Best I can hope for is that Corporal Peprana got out alive."

Ton's eyes went wide. "Wai…wait. You guys're…you're all…"

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the Twi'lek as he shook Ton's limp hand. "I am Ben'kotara, sniper of Sand Panther Platoon with the Alliance to Restore the Republic. My two human companions are Wex and Drex, twins as you can see. The Ithorian is Ropo Kendi, our medic. I am pleased to meet you."

"Y-yeah…you too." Ton slurred.

_Crap,_ Ton thought.

* * *

"_As you can see, each gauntlet possesses an automatic blaster as well as other armaments. In its present configuration, the Variable Threat Response Platform has a scatter gun mounted atop the right forearm, and a micro-missile launcher on the left. The upper legs house anti-ground missiles on the ventral side of the craft, to be used during strafing attacks. In between the pauldrons and helmet, you will notice two raised ridges. These house patented StarkTech self-propelled artillery shells with a high explosive yield._

"_But most obviously, the large gun mounted to the back of the Variable Threat Response Platform is a modified Z-6 rotary blaster cannon. It has been altered to withstand its new payload and function as a fully-incorporated weapon; it will not be able to fire unless mounted to the craft._

"_Beyond all else, the design of each weapon is modular. StarkTech will be releasing further additions in the near future to allow servicemen piloting the Variable Threat Response Platform a wider variety of options._"

The pilot had almost fallen asleep from the device's droning. If he heard the phrase "Variable Threat Response Platform" one more time, he doubted he could be held responsible for his actions. While informative, everything about the presentation felt like a StarkTech ad. Yes, it looked like a well-built machine. Yes, it was more capable than most things the pilot figured he would get the chance to operate. And yes, he _knew what the bloody thing was called_. Seriously. He wondered to himself if some of the other pilots had started taking shots of the nasty swill they concocted in the aft torpedo bay every time they heard the phrase. It would be just like them, too. Sure, illicit stills and bootlegging were as alive and well in the Imperial Navy as it was in just about any other naval force in history, but the pilot himself couldn't quite get around the idea. What if they had to suddenly deploy? What if a bad batch took out half a squadron?

"Software."

The holoprojector's picky selective hearing, however, he could get around.

"_The Variable Threat Response Platform utilizes state-of-the-art targeting software in combat. It also has top of the line translation software, courtesy of partner Cybot Galactica. Further, the heads-up display has been designed for ease of use and accessibility, flattening the learning curve and allowing for everything from weapons and systems management to external sensory data._"

While the pilot held to his initial ambivalence and mild confusion about the project, he'd have been lying if he said his curiosity hadn't been piqued over the course of the holoprojector's briefing.

* * *

"So," said one of the Humans, "what got you thrown in here? Must've been big. What are you, paramilitary? You with Hiram's boys or something?"

Ton could barely eke out a shrug. Who was Hiram? In what universe could he be considered any sort of combatant? Why did he even _care_?

The holoprojector "briefing" for the VTRP suits. That had to be it. He'd told the IT guys it was a bad idea. That it was a crime to have recorded such an annoying tutorial – seriously, what self-respecting military man needed to be reminded of his gun's name each time it was mentioned? – and force people to listen to it. Clearly, the Grand Admiral had thought so as well. And now here he was, sitting with a group of terrorists in a holding cell near Kor Vella. What was next, the whole place collapsing on itself?

A deep sound suddenly resonated throughout the cell. The lights flickered slightly before coming back on as a secondary generator kicked in. Inexplicably, the Twi'lek was grinning ear to ear.

"You hear that, boys? Unless I'm mistaken, that's our cavalry."


	5. Chapter 5

While the explosion could no longer be heard, Ton could hear the firing of blasters if he kept himself as quiet as those in his cell; each of them was low to the ground, listening every bit as intently as he was. But while Ton was slumped against the wall, each of the rebel soldiers seemed ready to roll at a moment's notice, all of their eyes focused solely on the wall of energy that kept them confined to the cell. There was no longer any question that this was a rescue attempt. And any question that the guards were beating them back was quickly becoming moot; drugged as he was, Ton was slowly regaining his senses, and the E-11 blaster carbine favored by Imperial forces had a very distinct sound to them. As the seconds agonizingly ticked by, the sounds grew louder and louder.

And with each burst of noise, the identifiable sound of an Imperial blaster firing became further and further lost in the cacophony.

Ton was scared. More scared than he had ever been in his life, in point of fact; he had _never_ been in trouble with the military, let alone enough trouble to be thrown in with terrorists. Apart from the odd business trip or vacation, he could not easily remember a time when he had left Coronet, let alone Corellia. He'd always been secure. Security was a privilege of intelligence and wealth. Ton knew full well that he had always been in a position to avoid problems with the Empire (or crime in general, even), he had no illusions of his privilege. But even knowing how sheltered he had been did not prepare him for what had happened, or what was continuing to happen. What was left of his sanity clung to his mind like a man might hang off a cliff; the grasp was slipping, and a fall was looking inevitable. Ton shut his eyes tightly, trying to force out the sound of yet another round of blaster fire. That time, there had been only a single Imperial shot fired, from practically right outside the cell.

As it turned out, not only practically. Though his eyes were shut to the point of forcing phosphenes to form in the darkness, he could hear the thud of an armored man falling to the ground right outside, followed by the quickly-loudening sound of boots moving forward and a voice – brusque and rough, but definitely female – ordering someone with a Wookiee-sounding name to unlock the cells; an order which was responded to with a bray of acknowledgment from someone who was most definitely a Wookiee, speaking over what sounded like a comlink. In the space of a few seconds, the ever-present hum of the ray shield cut out.

The sheer shock of hearing the shield go down forced Ton's eyes open again.

Standing in place of the ray shield was a fairly petite woman. Dressed in threadbare urban camouflage combat fatigues and holding a still-smoking A280 blaster rifle, the red-haired woman stared at the five men in the cell with an expression that lied somewhere between a smirk and a grimace. Freckles intermingled with dirt on her tight cheeks, and brown eyes seemed to stare straight past Ton's own when her eyes fell on him after a short moment. And she looked professional. From the Alderaanian buns on the sides of her head to the pistol strapped to her hip and the comlink unit on her left forearm, everything about this woman screamed practicality. But of course, what else could one expect from a hardened criminal that fought peacekeepers for a living?

"…you guys got captured by _that_?"

Ben wore a grin that reached both ears as he shot up and saluted. Wex and Drex got to their feet a little slower, wearing smiles of their own and managing weak waves. Ropo simply offered a deep nod, stepping forward in a greeting of his own. Ton simply saw all the people in the cell towering over him and tried to follow suit, inching his back upwards and pushing himself against the wall with his hands, slowly gaining altitude as whatever he had been hit with was finally getting out of his system thanks to the potent confusion/fear/adrenaline combination. The redhead shot Ton a look before turning back to the Twi'lek.

"You boys are all that's left?"

"Yes, Corporal Peprana," said Ben, "so far as any of us know. If there are others in other cells, we didn't see them."

"Damn. Chobucc," Peprana half-barked as she raised her comlink to her mouth, "tell me you found others." Her command was met with a low sad howl from the Wookiee on the other end, which itself was responded to with her mouth tightening into a thin, straight line. A grim "Understood," was all she had to say. With a small beep, the communication ended and Peprana shook her head for a brief moment.

With a motion of her head, she ordered her soldiers out of the cell. Ropo and the twins immediately followed the command and twisted around to get past their apparent commander, but Ben stayed near Ton, pointing to the man only now coming to his feet after several hours of total unconsciousness.

"What about him?"

The question gave Peprana pause, causing her to give a slightly longer look at Ton.

"You," she said after briefly darting her eyes to either side, "can you run?"

"Uhhh…yeah, yeah, I can run."

"Great!" Peprana's demeanor broke into a wicked grin that did not reach her still-steely eyes. "Can you shoot?"

"Uh, yeah, I ca-…wait, wha-"

"Brilliant. There are plenty of guns lying around outside, grab one on the way out."

The smile seemed to leap from Peprana's face over to Ben's. Clapping Ton on the shoulder to bid him an informal welcome, the billionaire weakly smiled. A genuine gesture of camaraderie? Or a subtle attempt at brainwashing? Progress meant nothing when trading one cause of confusion for another. Sure, they were helping him out. Sure, he knew that nothing he would have done while drunk merited being thrown in the same cell as terrorists for any length of time. But wasn't that precisely what they were? Terrorists? A band of rebels fighting against imagined injustices and needlessly getting innocent people killed all in the name of a system that had been corrupt for a thousand years and absolutely falling apart for at least the last century of its existence. Their cause was as empty as their methods were violent.

A violence Ton saw firsthand as he finally stepped into the hallway, where a carbine was immediately shoved into his hands by one of the thus-far indistinguishable twins and his eyes fell on three men in white plasteel armor, one of whom he'd unconsciously stepped over. Ben was on the other side of the hallway, talking to the bun-haired soldier about something apparently quite urgent. The other twin stood just beyond them, low into a kneeling position and keeping one eye down the scope of a blaster. The Ithorian had disappeared entirely.

"New to this, huh?"

The sudden question caused Ton's head to fly squarely around to see the twin questioning him, his voice grim.

"I remember my first time," he continued, speaking quickly and seemingly without breath, "seeing dead plastics and all. It gets easier over time, you know, you start to see them for what they are."

"Which is?" Ton strained to keep the ice out of his voice. This kid was in the business of killing people for no good reason. And while he was in neither the mood nor the position to take sides against the people that were still helping him out, Ton couldn't help but wonder just what sort of ass-pulled excuse the blond-haired twin had for his actions.

"Cogs. Cogs in a machine designed to subjugate, enslave. To kill. That is literally their _only_ purpose."

"Some might disagree."

"Look, man. If and when we get out of here, I doubt you'll be allowed to go to whatever life you had before. You're not one of us. But if you were put in our cell, odds are the Empire thought you every little bit as bad. The Empire took that from you. And if it weren't for these things," said the younger man, lightly kicking the hand of the dead stormtrooper, "then they'd have no way to."

Whatever poison they'd been making this young man drink, he'd gulped it down and asked for seconds. Ton could no longer hide his disgust. The kid was too gleeful in his words to be a sociopath – so far as Ton understood the word – but his callous disregard for the common Imperial foot soldier was remarkable even for a fellow combatant. It struck an odd chord with Ton. Twin A was clearly a smart boy; Ben had asked which company he was with, and the blond youth standing in front of him had figured out it wasn't the case almost immediately with nothing to go on but the reactions of a slowly-less-incapacitated man and a few facial expressions. So why had he fallen so completely in with the Rebel Alliance? Why had men with dreams, wants, and lives of their own been reduced to simple mechanical metaphors? Why was he telling him any of this?

"Why? Why are you giving me this gun, telling me these things?"

"To prepare you."

"For what? To join your group or something?"

"Preferably."

"But not certainly."

"Nothing's certain."

"You seem to be."

"Nothing beyond our control is certain, your continued help is just such a thing."

"So say that's off the table. Again. _Why_?"

Ton forced the question the second time he asked it, already weary of Twin A's dogmatic crap. Sensing his frustration, the young man let loose a small sigh, broke the staring contest that had been intensely fought since the exchange began, and explained his reasons as simply as Ton had posed his question.

"You haven't been listening," he began, still speaking quickly. "I know that much. Focusing on me. But I hear everything, see everything around me, my brother and I both.

"I know that Peprana is worried, and rightly so; Ben'kotara was telling her about our company's fate over on Talus, how we're the only ones left. Peprana's suffered the same fate; a handful of survivors out of her company, all of whom are securing the upper levels and haven't yet reported anything, which makes her worry. When you grilled me about my reasons, she called Chobucc, her slicer, and got word that he's having trouble permanently jamming the communication lines without blasting them. The blast you may or may not have heard over Peprana's comlink was him giving up. And because of that, sooner or later the Imperials are going to put two and two together to figure out that the unscheduled appearance of a transport shuttle and the loss of communication to one of their main Corellian strongholds was no coincidence."

The twin paused, taking a breath.

"In short, I'm telling you this because if the next few minutes go as I think they might, you're going to need that gun."

As if on cue, Peprana barked with a noticeable undertone of urgency, ordering everyone in earshot to move out. Twin B immediately stood from his crouch and ran forward with Peprana and Ben right on his tail, with Twin A shooting Ton a knowing smirk before sprinting down the hallway to catch up.

With little recourse, Ton ran right after him, not knowing exactly what he would run into.

* * *

As it turned out, there was nothing.

The cool, fresh air of a mountain evening hit Ton like a slap from an insulted ice statue. Looking up, dark clouds approached their position, the clouds' wet payload already bombarding the nearby city of Kor Vella. Smack in the middle of the base's courtyard was a white _Kappa_-class shuttle, and Ton's first count put the strength of the rebels at around twenty in number, only a third of whom looked fully prepared for battle; the rest were missing pieces of their uniform, held different blasters, looked shell-shocked, or any combination of the three. Of the twenty, only three weren't Human. Ton chanced a look around the entirety of the courtyard, noting that the Ithorian _still_ hadn't shown up.

He did not get a lot of time to look. Peprana shouted another terse order, and everyone immediately broke from their positions and made their way aboard the shuttle. Moving forward, Ton was nudged by a large and furry arm, making its way past him to bark and whine at the Alderaanian in charge. He didn't listen. He didn't care to; if this outdated little shuttle got him away from that cell, then it was his destination. Everything else was absolutely secondary.

Ton climbed the boarding ramp and found himself a seat towards the back of the shuttle near the starboard bulkhead, striving to stay far and clear from the band of rebellious soldiers, near two small walkers with open cockpits facing closed cargo doors. Ton had seen the walkers before, back when the Clone Wars were in full swing. But he didn't care. He couldn't care right now. He strapped himself in and rolled to his side to occupy the entire row, silently hoping for the whole ordeal to just end then and there. On any other day, Ton might wish for any number of things; a beautiful woman or two, an addition to his fleet of speeders, a brand spanking new contract or an unmolested bottle of rare liquor. But right now, more than anything in the universe his wealth or influence or charm could get him, Ton Stark simply wished to be home aboard his skyhook. And when he got there – _if_ he got there, as per Scary Twin's ominous warning – the first thing he was going to do was take his fine collection of alcohol, dump it all into his oversized tub, and take a bath in it from which he would not rise from for several days in spite of Jay's near-hourly protests. He would lie back in comfort, occasionally sipping from the cleansing pool of bliss, letting the ordeal pass over like the bad dream it was and go right back to work when he was ready. All would be well. He'd wake up, and this would only be a nightmare to be forgotten by the same time tomorrow.

"Hope you didn't listen to Drex. He's full of it."

Ton shuddered as Ben's voice unexpectedly came from behind him, turning his head to see the Twi'lek man ensuring that the locks holding the walkers in place were secure along with two other men. Though his smile was far less radiant than it had been when he'd introduced himself and his comrades, Ben still tried to keep his spirits up. But Ton couldn't help but notice that Ben had been smiling since he had been conscious. Only in the past few minutes had it faltered even slightly from when he was in the cell. Not the best judgment of a man's temperament, Ton knew. But if a hardened, gleeful son of a bitch was looking gloomy, something must've been seriously wrong.

And Ton couldn't allow things to be seriously wrong. Not now. Not when freedom from this nightmare and blessed, blessed consciousness was so very close at hand.

"What's the matter?"

"We spotted tanks, coming in hard and fast. Nothing to worry about."

"And yet you're worried."

Ben closed his eyes and sighed before slowly nodding his head. "It would seem," Ben started, "that despite Chobucc's skill with technology, he's still every bit as susceptible to the anger inherent in every Wookiee. The jamming didn't stop; the Imperials in Kor Vella lost the base's signal altogether. That's what tipped them off."

There was a slight shudder and the loud whine of engines as the shuttle began to lift off. Near the front of the ship, Peprana and the long-lost Ropo scrambled aboard the vessel, closing the boarding ramp as they did so. Turning back to face Ben, Ton saw the cargo doors slide open, and the two Humans that had been accompanying their Twi'lek comrade put themselves atop the walkers and activated their guns, keeping the legs locked and docked.

And immediately after that, the craft rocked violently, throwing Ben against the bulkhead of the shuttle and almost causing Ton to fire the carbine he still held in a white-knuckled grip.

For a brief moment, the makeshift gunner on the port side of the vessel opened fire, screaming as he sent a flurry of blue bolts towards an unseen enemy. The shuttle slowly turned to port, and Ton heard the sound of cannon fire as the man in the walker took his finger off the trigger. He also heard the sound of energy being violently dissipated as it hit the craft's energy shield , immediately followed by a high-pitched squeal as another type of energy beam hit, much more prolonged than the first. Both walkers started to fire, with both pilots shouting meaningless jargon over their shoulders in what sounded like an attempt to coordinate their efforts. Ben pulled himself into the seat just ahead of Ton and strapped himself in, rubbing the visible spot on his forehead that was almost certainly going to leave a nasty-looking bruise. More lasers connecting with shields. More fire from the walkers. More screaming.

And then came the explosion.

Ton felt the force of the blast as the walker two rows behind him exploded, snapping the seat restraints, sending him clear into and ricocheting off of the bench of seats in front of him. In contrast to the din of battle all around him, all he heard now was the ringing of his ears. All he felt was the shuttle lurching dangerously low before recovering, and the sudden thrust of acceleration as it peeled away from the engagement. Looking towards his feet, his blurry vision saw a pair of people – a Zabrak woman and another Human man with a flame extinguisher and a medical kit respectively – race past him in a move that did nothing to distract Ton from a smell that was rapidly growing more putrid. Reaching up, Ton forced himself to at least sit upright before climbing to his feet, coming to his senses and looking behind him only to wish he had remained knocked down.

The cargo doors had been closed, but all that remained of the starboard walker were the legs and a heap of shrapnel, its driver nowhere to be found. The driver of the other walker, however, was flailing and screaming in his seat; a scream that grew more audible as the ringing in Ton's ears subsided. Scraps of metal and a red mist coated the Human's back, and his compatriot struggled to get him out of the walker as the Zabrak woman put out the fires caused by the blast. Looking forward, towards the bridge, Ton saw at least three people also trying to regain their senses, their helpless chatter and palpable fear racing up to meet Ton just like Corellia's fresh air had. Snippets of the cross-shuttle conversation struck out at him.

"Shit, Varniel's gone! _Gone_, man!" said one.

"The hell was down there?! Did anybody see what was hitting us?!" said another.

"Guys, just face front. Don't look back there. Don't look…" yet another told his comrades, desperately trying to keep calm.

But as the scene quieted down and the rebels came to their senses as well, Ton could hear Peprana's voice filter from the cockpit. Hobbling out into the central walkway and moving closer to try and hear something other than the wounded man's screaming, his shocked face managed to fall. His eyes darted to some of the faces he could see. Each expression matched the one he felt. They had not come to their senses at all, but merely hid their despair; rather, they too were listening to their corporal's increasingly disheartening prattle.

"…shield generator's down and we've lost one of the main engines. We're leaking fuel, we've already lost more than we'd need to break the gravity well. Weapons are fine, remaining engine is fine, control is fine, life support…isn't…"

Ton continued to move forward, feeling the weight of eyes falling on him as he moved into the cockpit. Out of the corner of his right eye, behind a light veil of red, he could see one of the men put his hand on a blaster rifle, ready to shoot the stranger right in the back. He paid it no mind. Ton was determined to get home, and the shuttle they were in was falling apart around them. This would not do.

With a loud clearing of his throat, he got Peprana to whip around, staring at him in total desperation; any and all trace of bravado or seriousness had been blown away by the explosion near the stern.

"What?! What do you want?"

"Peprana, there's a skyhook in geosynchronous orbit over Coronet. Can this thing get there?"

"Wh-what did you say?"

Ton's voice had already been stripped of anything resembling fear or doubt, having apparently transferred it to Peprana somehow. Sparing a brief moment to think that he could not have possibly made himself clearer, he spoke again, this time without any pretense of formality.

"Sky. Hook. Over Coronet. If this thing has the range, _get us there_."

Peprana's head fell back a bit in shock at the stranger's sudden forcefulness. She looked to Chobucc, who turned his head from the shuttle's controls to murmur and nod, possibly as a confirmation that there was indeed a skyhook in the area that the Human was talking about. Immediately after, the copilot shot a glance to Peprana before darting back to the controls briefly, and then turning back again to look at her.

"We can do it, ma'am. This thing won't be getting up again once we're there, but it can be done. But unless we can patch into the thing's security, I'll need the access codes for the hangar if we want to disemb-"

"Mern Aurek Resh One Nine Six Three. West side. Don't scuff my floor."

The copilot stared at Ton, his jaw frozen open. Peprana also stared, although hers was not of utter disbelief. Rather, the browns of her eyes seemed to lighten as hope returned to a hopeless situation. After a brief pause, where Ton found himself smiling at the Alderaanian corporal in spite of himself, Chobucc grunted and turned the shuttle towards the sector Ton had outlined, bringing them all back to reality. Peprana began making orders and the cockpit crew began pressing buttons and flipping switches, leaving Ton to wander back into the main fuselage. The rebel soldiers, previously apprehensive, were now grinning and applauding the eleventh hour savior who had single-handedly pulled them from death's icy grip.

And yet it was all dulled and quieted by Ton Stark's realization that he had just committed treason.


	6. Chapter 6

The landing was violent. As the damaged and leaking shuttle passed through the energy shield keeping the processed air inside the skyhook's hangar, the already-extended landing gears scraped against the metal floor and the front starboard gear almost immediately began to give way, lowering the side it was supposed to prop up. The resulting confusion caused Chobucc to swerve the shuttle to port in a futile attempt to offset the problem, instead pushing the craft into a spin that was halted only by crashing against the far wall of the hangar. The transparisteel cracked. Everyone in the shuttle was lurched forward in their seats, some hitting their heads on the backs of their comrades in the process.

But they were alive. Had they been on the shuttle for another five minutes, they wouldn't have been.

Chobucc lowered the boarding ramp, and everyone that was strapped in undid the restraints and practically threw themselves towards it, needing a stern reminder from Peprana that they were still soldiers, and still had to act as such. After a short pause to acknowledge the reprimand, the disembarking continued, this time in a much more orderly fashion. The wounded were moved off first, carried by others who had managed to escape the Imperial counterattack unscathed. Following them were the healthy fighters, who were then finally followed out by the shuttle's flight crew. Peprana was the last to leave the shuttle, now just shy of certifiable "wreck" status.

She had been in the middle of a headcount when a nearby door slid open and revealed a silver 3PO-series protocol droid. Tilting its head at the scene, the droid – its blue photoreceptors immediately setting it apart from most protocol droids Peprana had seen – made eye contact with her and immediately proceeded forward, offering a slight bow as it came to a stop.

"Good evening, madam" said the droid, having a slightly deeper variation of the crisp Coruscanti accent that was common among its series, "I am J-3PO, human-cyborg relations. How might I serve you?"

Peprana had been about to answer when the goatee-bearing man that had brought them there brushed past her, suddenly standing between her and the droid.

"Jay, these people need medical supplies. You and I are going to grab everything there is and get back down here, post-haste."

The droid fell silent, adjusting his posture slightly in the face of his master. Turning his torso to either side to assess the damage, he turned back to the yet-unnamed man and voiced his concerns.

"Sir," the droid started, his tone somewhat dismal, "I do not believe we are capable of treating some of these injuries. They look rather severe."

"They are. But there are several we _can_ help, and we're going to _do_ that, now aren't we?"

"I-"

"_Aren't_. We."

Peprana hadn't needed to see the man to know he had been speaking through tightly clenched teeth. Without another word, the man walked briskly past the droid, gripping his shoulder in an effort to spin J-3PO around and get him to follow. Taking the hint, "Jay" – as the Corellian had called him – followed as quickly as his limited leg motion would allow him to, almost not making it to the door he had entered in when it slid shut.

* * *

The lift to the main deck had been silent for all of three of the six seconds it took to reach the main deck. And in true Jay fashion, Jay immediately began with the fussing.

"Sir, I'm glad to see you in good health once again. I had quite been unsure as to your whereabouts, and I am glad that the ru-"

"Jay, not now."

The lift door slid open and Ton made absolutely no effort to wait up for the droid as he stormed through the white stone hallway that rounded the skyhook, taking no mind to the busts or paintings that he had purchased and painstakingly organized throughout the kilometer-long circumference of his skyhook. All he saw was the red of the long carpet, his eyes peeled for the tributary that would take him to his home's small infirmary. And all the while, Jay was struggling to keep up, half-shouting at his ever-turned back.

"Sir, if I might ask, who are those people down there? Why are they all carrying blasters? Have you hired mercenaries?"

"No, Jay."

"Oh. That's strange. I noticed the shuttle you…_landed_ in was of an old Sienar design, are they Imperial mercenaries?"

"_No_, Jay…"

"I see. Well, I hope they do not bleed too profusely, the guest hangar will be hard enough to clean as it is with that shuttle there. And I suppose…"

Jay's words slowly fused together in such a way that Ton would have likened it to a countryside becoming a blur as one gained speed. He was entirely too wrapped up in his mental state to give even the smallest damn about Jay's menial concerns. A traitor, that's what he was. He was sheltering, aiding, and abetting known terrorists. He was knowingly helping those that would go out and kill more people in the name of their pathetic little dream. Ton already felt like throwing up. Jay's prattle wasn't helping matters in the slightest. He was going to prison for sure. Possibly locked up on one of those dungeon ships, where escape was literally impossible. Possibly Dathomir, where escape was not only impossible, but utterly unthinkable compared to the horrors that world held. And they may possibly just shoot him on sight. All he'd wanted was a little understanding, and barely two hours after waking up, he was throwing in his lot with murderers and insurgents who recruited people with situational delusions (if Ben was any indication) and serious mental problems (as was the case with one of the twins, for sure, though Ton had already forgotten his name).

Ton had spent his entire career building and designing weapons for the Empire. And now, not a week after he had finished crafting his masterpiece, he had brought them into his home and was about to give them whatever medical supplies he had handy. Ton Stark, billionaire weapons designer for the Galactic Empire, was now helping the Rebel Alliance escape justice.

A sinking feeling in his gut told him that this nightmare he had found himself in was far from over.

* * *

Though the general din had quieted somewhat, the hangar was still filled with the quiet whispers among the shocked and grateful troops, punctuated every now and again by the moans of the wounded. Peprana's eyes fell over her unit soldier by soldier. These were people who had fought together, lost so much together, and had now been pulled out of the Empire's gnashing jaws by a nameless Corellian who had access to a skyhook and medical supplies. And if that was the case, it was possible he had a ship.

The very thought made her feel ill somehow. Proper procedure would dictate that she make her way to the other hangar directly across the skyhook from their position and commandeer whatever vessel would suit their needs. It was what would be expected of a commander. And yet it just felt wrong to her somehow. After all, the guy who had brought them here doubtlessly knew that by helping them, he had painted a target on his back. Whatever life he led to come into possession of a kriffin' _skyhook_ would have to be left entirely behind. As far as the Empire was concerned, the man was part of the Rebel Alliance. A traitor. If they caught him, and he was the luckiest son of a bitch in the galaxy, he would be sent to Dathomir. Peprana silently shook her head as she recalled the stories she'd heard of the place. How the torturers kept at it for days. How inmates were fed only enough to keep them on the brink of starvation. How sleep – if it came – was filled with terrors and darkness that made everything else seem tame.

No. If this mystery man was lucky, he would just be shot.

Peprana's eyes finally fell upon Arn Harth, lying topless on his stomach, in tears and whimpering from the pieces of shrapnel still embedded into his back. He was a lucky bastard; a piece of Lorn's AT-RT had flown right past his head when it went up, damn near decapitating him. He was also unlucky; Arn had barely left basic training when he had been assigned to the Sand Panther Platoon. Disaster struck, and that somehow left Peprana fully in charge of almost twenty-five men. Including a young man who had only just gotten his first taste of combat, and was already poised to die from it. In the minutes since they had arrived, Arn's breathing had grown shallower, and his steely grey eyes less limpid. And Peprana was helpless to do anything. Their benefactor had not yet returned with the promised aid, and Ropo was just sitting there on both knees, his eyes closed. Both sets of massive lips on either side of the Ithorian's trunk hummed a chord that sought to soothe the confusion, fear, and pain surrounding them all. But for Peprana – a woman who very much liked being in control at all times – the two-noted tune was becoming something of a nuisance.

"Ropo," said Peprana, causing the Ithorian to slowly open his eyes, "I thought you were a medic. What's with the monk chant?"

**I mean to ease everyone's tension, Corporal, responded Ropo, speaking in his own native language, and that includes both yours and mine. Why do you ask?**

"Because Private Harth has been seriously injured for coming on twenty minutes now and you haven't done anything but kneel there and hum. You're a medic, dammit. Act like it."

**The young man's pain is being managed. But his fear is still thick, tangled, palpable. If he does not calm his mind, I cannot help him. Besides, you know I cannot render aid using…less conventional means. Not really. My training was interrupted.**

"I know, Ropo. I know. But you saw how deep the wounds went. You _told_ me how bad it was."

The Ithorian slowly nodded. Harth's condition was much worse than anybody had told him. While none of the metal shards were especially large, they had cut deep into his body and threatened several vital organs. It would take someone with knowledge, skill, and the right equipment to extract them all, and Ropo had two of the three in abundance. But Peprana was not talking about the typical, medicine-and-surgery based healing. Unlike her comrades, she knew just what the Ithorian medic was capable of when forced to improvise. It was not a skill the Ithorian displayed lightly, nor was it something he did in front of people he did not absolutely trust. The ginger-haired woman had no time for personal peeves, however. Harth was dying. And she suspected that Stark wasn't going to get back in time.

"Please, Ropo. He's handled so much already. I know he can handle a little bit more."

Ropo once again closed his large eyes, a strange sound emanating forth from his trunk; the Ithorian biology's answer to a humanoid sigh. After another brief, pregnant moment of silence, Ropo turned his head to face the face-down Harth.

**Private Harth, I need you to remain calm and stay completely still. What is about to happen will hurt. Can you stay still for me?**

"He says," Peprana said, translating for the injured rookie, "that you need to stay perfectly still. Can you do it?"

Harth's grey eyes looked to Peprana before he silently nodded. Peprana's brown eyes moved from the private's to the medic's, where she in turn nodded. And Ropo's large black eyes turned to face the young man's back before closing once more. The Ithorian's right hand moved to hover over Harth's lower back, where something caused the private to suddenly go stiff and wince, although he held to his word to stay still. His breathing grew sharp and hard, and his eyes started to clench themselves shut, but Arn held. A strange noise came from his throat, a half-scream; the sound of a hurting person who knew that giving in to the urge to let loose a roar to accurately communicate his pain would compromise his orders. So he remained still. And grunted. And whimpered.

And slowly, Ropo raised his hand. A sharp sliver of dark grey, bloodied metal was slowly drawn from Arn's back.

Ropo was not touching it.


	7. Chapter 7

Grand Admiral Candar smiled as he looked over the six pilots making their way into his vessel's hangar bay. Each of them were top scorers in their respective academies. Each of them had been proven to be among the best in their respective spacecraft assignments. And each of them had that special air about them, that undefinable x-factor that put them a cut above the others in their squadrons. And not one flight lead among them. Each and every pilot now walking towards him – standing smack in the center of the hangar, the two-tone grey suits of armor forming a half-circle behind his back – had not only proven themselves as capable pilots, but as exceptionally loyal wingmen. They followed orders, and they followed orders well. Superbly well.

And it was a good thing, too; if anybody was going to be leading this prototype squadron, it was going to be _him_.

Finally coming within speaking distance, the pilots formed a single line and saluted in unison, standing almost shoulder-to-shoulder as they breached the invisible line formed by the half-circle of armor.

Standing to the far right was First Lieutenant Bromm Daven, a blond-haired, blue-eyed, fantastic specimen of everything the Empire desired in the galaxy's greatest species. Tough, loyal, and just smart enough to work for a superior intellect's needs. Next to him was First Lieutenant Alia Ferron, a short-haired brunette woman that was quite tall for her age bracket and was advancing up the ranks faster than any woman the Grand Admiral had heard about. Next to her was Commander Arlon Pronem, the squadron's bald liason to the Imperial Army (and whom did not answer directly to the Grand Admiral, but to Colonel Ganti when not in combat); the least experienced flyer of the squadron, but the matter was irrelevant as he would mostly be used in infantry operations anyway. And next to him was Second Lieutenant Drek Orion, who had been the single most talented up-and-coming pilot that Grand Admiral Candar had ever seen. He was young and fresh-faced, with green eyes that held a fire and enthusiasm that had since been drummed out of his new squad mates. Of the lot of them, this young man held the most promise.

And rounding out the lot was the squadron's second-in-command, the dark-skinned, nearly bald Lieutenant Colonel Jin Rodi. Young for such a high-ranking officer, Rodi showed remarkable prowess in starfighter combat, good technician ability, and had the capacity – but, as his record showed, a marked hesitance – to lead, which was why he did not command a squadron of his own at his rank.

Further, Candar thought to himself, Rodi was probably the only one that had read the blasted manual.

"At ease," said Candar, taking a step forward towards the new squadron as they dropped their salutes. "Pilots, I would like to thank you for showing your interest in our new prototypes. I brought you here because you are among the best and the brightest in your fields," said the Grand Admiral, only half-honestly, "and I feel that each of you will be able to utilize our new combat unit to its fullest potential.

"Now," he continued, turning his back to the group and briskly walking towards one of the alusteel suits, "in about five hours' time, we'll be deploying to Ryloth on a rescue operation. One of the garrisons there went silent some 400 kilometers due east of Lessu, and I volunteered our vessel to conduct the search and rescue. Figured we should get the new fighters operational ASAP."

The reactions from the pilots were varied. Daven and Pronem both grinned from ear to ear at the prospect of climbing into the suits and deploying. Ferron smiled as well, but in a much more reserved manner, clearly looking forward more to the rescue itself rather than the means by which it would be carried out. Orion looked horrified; talented as he was, the poor kid hadn't even been in official service for a year, and the reality of suddenly being in a developmental prototype in hostile territory was beginning to dawn on him. Rodi's arms were crossed, his right hand rubbing his chin as his eyes fell on each individual suit in turn.

"Now, this next part," the Grand Admiral continued, smiling to himself, "I know you're all going to like. Since this unit is under my direct supervision – and thus, given my rank, effectively answerable only to Lord Vader himself – I'm easing the uniform and rank restrictions for six of these units."

That caught everyone's attention, though some expressed it more than others; while Orion's eyes lit up, Rodi's only visible change was that his large brown eyes shot from one of the suits to his commanding officer.

"Now, keep in mind that I want everyone on their side _and_ ours to know that the people operating these war machines are very much a part of the Imperial Navy, so I'd ask that you keep the basic color scheme recognizable. Further, since our engineers aren't quite used to paint in anything other than some shade of gray, you're all largely on your own so far as the customizations go. Just try not to get it on the floor. No sense making more of a mess than need be.

"You'll find the paint over by the door you came through. Enjoy yourselves."

The pilots made their way to the suits, some more exuberantly than others. Striding past them, Candar afforded himself a smile. Some might have said that his ironclad adherence to pragmatism was slipping by allowing the candidates to customize their armor to suit their preferences. Some, by that same coin, did not understand the Grand Admiral's motive. Come hell or high water, six of those suits would be deployed in five hours' time by men and a woman who had only flown together once or twice before, if at all. So far as the bearded commanding officer was concerned, it was not about giving the pilots free reign so much as it was about teambuilding. And if they were allowed to express themselves for a while, they might just begin to build a rapport.

As he walked past the threshold, the doors slid behind him, leaving the five pilots to their own devices.

* * *

The doors slid open again, allowing Ton and J-3PO to step out of the lift, each carrying a bin full of assorted medical supplies. The entire contents of the man's infirmary had been emptied out into the two bins, and the protocol droid had been having a tough time carrying the thing since they started heading back; in his own words, the droid was "not built for manual labor". But his complaints fell on deaf ears. Having decided to simply let the butler run out of whatever droids had in place of breath, Ton silently loaded his bin and walked in a daze.

The daze stopped, however, when he knelt down and placed the white bin next to the Ithorian and shot a look to Peprana. Staring for a second longer than he perhaps should have, Ton ran a hand through his spiky black hair before turning to walk away, where another series of doors would take him to the adjacent hangar. It would give him space. It would give him his wide array of ships to gawk at. And if there was any justice in the galaxy, it would help get the terrorists in his guest hangar the hell away from him.

Terrorists _and_ their Jedi friend, to boot.

It wasn't hard to see. The Ithorian was kneeling over a wounded man, several shards of bloodied metal lying on a bloodied cloth to the man's left, having been pulled from a bloodied back. And for all the blood surrounding the procedure, the alien hadn't a single drop of blood on his clothes, nor did he have a single tool to work with. Unless he had dug them out with his long, awkward fingers and somehow managed to avoid getting even the slightest trace of blood on them, then there was no other way to have pulled out the metal with such precision. Not without killing the poor bastard. No other way at all.

Stopping, Ton looked at the far end of the new hangar, past all the luxurious ships and expensive speeders to gaze into the infinite black void just beyond a light blue ray shield.

How deep was this hole going to go?

* * *

Rodi stared at the suit before him the way a sculptor might look deep into a block of marble, envisioning the statue within. The Empire's insistence on uniformity had been drilled into him hard and often. Suddenly being allowed to express himself in some small way in the line of duty was more foreign to him than the legendary angels of Iego. How would he do it? Looking around, he saw some of the new squadron already storming ahead with their ideas. Orion had opted for a simple set of yellow stripes down each arm, painting the forward missile launchers on each thigh and the back of the suit's greaves to match. Pronem was painting camouflage tones over the lighter sections of armor, probably due in no small part to his background as a ground-pounder. Daven had gotten a hold of the black paint and was haphazardly covering his own armor in a uniform coating, which was already starting to look fairly terrifying under its new color scheme.

"Trouble?"

Rodi whipped around to see Ferron looking right through him to the war machine behind him, squinting her pretty blue eyes and smiling her smug little smile. With a small spring in her step, the short-haired woman marched right up to the man and gently pushed him to the side, as though moving just half a meter to either side was simply too time-consuming. Ferron stared at the alusteel suit, contemplating it with a mock fierceness; a caricature of what Rodi had been doing only moments before.

"Maybe. What's it to you?"

Rodi tried hard not to smile. Such behavior was so very _her_.

"Just thinking. I mean, we're gonna be heroes to those guys on Ryloth. Like, I don't know, superheroes or something."

"Is there a point to all this, Lieutenant?"

Ferron turned to Rodi and smirked for a brief moment before turning back to the suit.

"Just that you're probably overthinking it. These things already look awesome. If you don't want to decorate it, you'll probably look just as good flying the Empire Day parade as any of the others."

"Probably," Rodi said, moving closer to the suit and lowering his voice so only Ferron could hear him, "but you of all people should know I like to go on my gut when push comes to shove…"

Ferron had to hide a snicker. Rodi was many things - a good pilot, a great wingman, a decent human being, and _great_ in a dark room behind closed doors – but subtlety was something he had yet to master. Technically speaking, conjugal fraternization among officers was against practically every regulation the Imperial Navy had. And while it was not especially common, it was not unheard of, either. Rodi and Ferron had found out the hard way that their off-hours affair was one of the ship's worst-kept secrets. But, in turn, they had found out that so long as nobody caught them in the act and nobody could prove it after the fact – both of which seemed highly unlikely, given that nobody they knew really cared enough to do either – nothing would be done to prevent it. There had been times, however, where the term "close shave" was woefully inadequate.

After all, Rodi was far from subtle.

Even then, Ferron knew that Rodi was a consummate professional when on-duty. That he would try to sneak in a joke about their off-the-books relationship in the middle of a hangar bay with other pilots trying to prepare for a top-secret mission came so far out of the blue that she could not help but to laugh. Ferron knew enough about people to know that the painting would get the pilots to lighten up and start talking to each other, even if only to ask for a paint bucket when another flyer was done with it.

And while it had yet to be expressed on the suit, the idea that even being in the room was getting Rodi to loosen up some - especially considering his feelings toward the way the Empire was heading - allowed Ferron's smile to grow even wider.

* * *

"Hey, I don't think I said 'thank you'."

Ton whipped around to see Peprana hanging on the still-open door jamb. Her smile was weak and her eyes – brown irises that not two hours ago had been burning with determination – were curiously empty. The light and worn fatigues she wore seemed to weigh heavier than any armor as she took small steps towards him.

"Yeah, sure," Ton replied, trying his best to not acknowledge her, "don't mention it."

"No, sir, I mean it," she immediately replied, completely oblivious to Stark's dismissive tone, "you risked a lot to help us out of that. All of this, in fact. Just so me and mine could fight another day. You have no idea what that means for all of us."

"Sure don't."

Ton had just managed to glimpse a half-smile from the terrorist leader before his back turned.

"I know you don't, Mister…Mister…"

"Ton. It's just Ton."

"Right. Ton. In any case, if they managed to track the shuttle, odds are you painted a target on your back for our sake. The Empire won't let you come back to any of this. They'll send their hounds to the farthest reaches of the galaxy to find you, and when they do it'll be the firing squad."

Unbeknownst to Peprana, Stark rolled his eyes. He could talk his way out. Of course he could. He was a silver-tongued genius who had helped the Empire on their most ambitious project to date, that practically guaranteed him safety from the rifles. And yet, the red-haired woman spoke with an unmistakable sincerity, as if she had seen this happen before. What if she was right? What if there really _wasn't_ any way to convince the Empire they'd made a mistake in throwing him in a cell? If that was true, then staying with them was the safest option available…

No. It was just another sales pitch. To Peprana's credit, though, it was much more effective than Scary Twin's attempt.

"So, what, sign up with you? Fight the good fight?"

Behind him, Peprana almost cringed under the weight of Stark's obvious contempt. "No," she said in a decidedly more measured tone, "there are other options. We could hide you somewhere. Give you a new identity, a new life somewhere in the Rim…"

"But."

"But in order to do that, we need to get there. I'm sorry, Ton, but I have to ask one last favor of you."

"A ship, right?"

Peprana's silence practically spelled her intentions out. She could hide behind niceness and twist the situation to make it look like an offer, but Ton knew better; he knew that one way or another she was taking one of his prized vessels, and he knew she'd walk over his corpse to do so if it came to that. It wasn't a favor she was asking. It was a demand dressed up to make Ton think he had a choice in the matter. Yet another common brainwashing trick employed by her kind of scum. Ton could almost taste the foam in his mouth.

And yet something nagged at him. Despite all logic telling him to pay the notion no mind, Stark simply could not shake the thought that Peprana was right. If he stayed, he was a dead man. Despite his contributions and his genius, something about the _way_ the petite woman had spoken earlier told him that no amount of money or intelligence would save him from the firing squad. If he went with the rebels, then he at least had however long it took to reach their destination. Sure, they'd probably shoot him in cold blood afterward, but he'd have that long.

If he had that long, then perhaps he could turn the situation to his advantage.

"The SoroSuub," Ton finally said, pointing to the long and beautiful craft immediately to his right, "that'll do the job. Enough rooms for everyone, decent infirmary, flight controls a baby could understand…it'll do."

Silence once again fell in the hangar. After a brief moment, Ton's shoulder was gently gripped, and his head turned to see Peprana's weak smile and misting brown eyes. She whispered a "Thank you" and turned away, walking back to the other hangar. Ton shook his head as he looked back to the ray shield; the hole had just gotten that much deeper, all because he wanted to live just that little bit longer.

* * *

"Last I saw those, they were on a clone's helmet in a history vid."

Daven flashed a smirk as he planted the paint bucket down on the floor, folding his arms over his chest as he watched Rodi put the finishing touches on his own design. Bringing the brush down, Rodi knelt and carefully placed it in the bucket by his feet, dipping the brush into a pool of royal blue paint. He turned as he stood back up, mimicking the blond pilot as he did so. Unlike Daven, Rodi's face carried no trace of a smile.

"Did you need the blue?"

Daven simply laughed and raised a finger, shaking it at Rodi in an almost mocking gesture.

"You're just a big ol' softie, aren't you, Jin? Painting those things on your helmet. It's almost like you're nostalgic."

"Is there a point to this, _Lieutenant_?"

Whereas he had used the title casually with Alia, Jin practically spat it at Bromm. The tall blond man's record spoke for itself; a top graduate at Corulag, a near flawless flight record, and had helped prove the viability of the TIE Avenger as a test pilot on the x1; a level of prestige reserved for only the best pilots the Empire had, including Lord Vader himself. It had given him no small amount of arrogance. Arrogance enough, even, to refer to his superior officer – a superior officer that was known throughout the ship as being as by-the-book as they came in most cases – by his first name like it was nothing. Between that and the undeniable fact that Bromm had always had a few screws loose, Jin saw very little to like about the pilot standing before him, ostensibly leading into a request for the blue paint by his feet. Clowns like this were becoming more and more common in the Empire, and not just restricted to combat roles. They were more common, becoming more brazen, and had no sense of real responsibility. They were never wrong, it was always someone else. They could make no mistakes, the failure was always with others. Had it not been for the Imperial Military Stop Loss Order, Rodi would have seriously considered getting himself discharged just to get away from morons like Daven.

And after the brief moment where Rodi's question hung in the air, Daven's smile dropped completely.

"There is, Colonel. I'm not so sure you oughta be here, what with your little sentimentalities. I mean, c'mon. Look at those things," Daven hissed, pointing at the markings on Rodi's helmet, "they're relics of corruption. Some might call that treason."

"And some might think you're looking too far into a bit of paint, Daven."

Daven's smirk returned, rolling his eyes as he walked back to his drying, all-black armor. Almost immediately filling the space the arrogant man had just vacated, Grand Admiral Candar stroked his short beard, darting his eyes between Rodi and Daven. Rodi was surprised, but only slightly; though he had left some time ago, the man had been known to just appear and disappear seemingly at will. If he was showing up now, then the time of deployment must have been soon at hand.

"So," Candar began, sounding rather cavalier about what he'd apparently just witnessed between his subordinates, "you and Daven aren't going to have any further problems, are you?"

"No, sir. Not at all."

"Good," said Candar, nodding, "considering we suit up now."

"Sir?"

"Not to worry, Lieutenant Colonel. Our engineers will be here soon to disassemble the suits and clamp them around you."

"Not what I was going to ask, sir. I was wondering if we knew anything more about the missing troops."

"When we do, Rodi, you'll be the first to know."

With a smile, Candar turned and walked towards another pilot. Rodi shook his head; a meathead like Daven was on the squad, they were going into potentially hostile territory with equipment that had been built and tested by a drunken rich boy in laughably low-risk circumstances, and had no new information despite several hours passing. Exciting as the project was, this sort of thing was becoming more and more prevalent within the service.

Turning around, Rodi stared at the eyes of his suit's helmet, considering it carefully. And right above the armor's eye slits, two royal blue _jaig_ eyes – symbols of expert airmanship among the soldiers of the Clone Wars – stared right back at him.


	8. Chapter 8

Even in Ryloth's equatorial zone, the planet's star was furiously bright. The rocky formations reflected the sun's light to an even harsher degree, which was exacerbated even further than that by the planet's near-total lack of plant life. It was not the sort of environment that lent itself well to animal life, let alone animal life that eventually came to sapience and prominence as the Twi'leks had. Clearly, the anti-alien proponents of Human High Culture over on Coruscant had not considered just how intelligent a species such as the Twi'leks had to be in order to survive. The rocky desert that made up the terrain? The narrow strip of even remotely usable land? The harshness of the planet's sun constantly bearing down on them?

And they had done all of this _without_ a temperature-controlled suit of powered armor that almost immediately dimmed the visual feed to compensate for the planet's brightness, as Rodi's had just done.

Descending the shuttle's ramp had been something of a chore; Rodi's arms and legs were still getting used to actuators doing most of the walking for him, and it made the pilot feel less like he was controlling the armor and more like it was using him as a sort of skeleton. Disconcerting did not even begin to describe the sensation. But if he focused on the surroundings and paid attention to his almost insultingly-simple heads-up display, he could ignore the idea that he was on the inside of some powerful monster rather than operating equipment that ran on the bleeding edge of military technology. And there was plenty of information to distract him in any case; the top-left corner showed the status of each of his wingmen, the bottom right showed a radar display with five green dots in front of the circle's center and a white dot on the outermost rim to serve as a waypoint, and the top right corner displayed planetary information; everything from atmospheric gas concentration to comparative gravity was the squad's to know.

"_Okay team, listen up,_" said Candar's voice over the armor's communications channel, "_I want to hit these bastards hard and fast. Leave a real impression for them to consider the next time they think about going after our boys._ _Orion, Rodi, I want you two in the sky, shoot down anything that doesn't land when you tell them to. Daven, you and Commander Pronem will take the east and west flanks on the ground, and squeeze in on my command. Ferron, we're taking point. Just follow my lead and cover me. Any questions?_"

Variations of "no" all came through the channel at once.

"_Good. The flight to their last known location won't be especially long_._ Let's move._"

Rodi's eyes flicked left and right, running through the pre-flight checks. Propulsion systems were online, stabilization systems were online, maneuvering controls checked out, the targeting computer was activated, and the comm lines were clear as could be. Rodi felt his back buzz as the miniature thrusters mounted on the armor's dorsal side fired up. He then heard a sound he had not heard in several years of piloting various craft; the best he could figure was that it was a great mechanical beast taking a deep breath of air, which was immediately followed by light pressure on his palms as the stabilizing thrusters on either palm shot to life with a loud blast. Within two seconds, another blast - this one more muted than the first - erupted from beneath Rodi's boots, sending up a wave of dust around him as he rose into the air.

Rodi had gotten used to the sensation of a soft launch. After engaging the repulsorlifts on the underside of his craft, the fighter would be released from the rack, and he'd move it out of the hangar. But in keeping with the line of thought that made him accept the invitation – that this suit would be far different than anything he had flown before – the Variable Threat Response Platform was having none of the soft launch crap. Even almost three hundred meters into the air and climbing, everything about the suit was powerful. And Rodi _felt_ it; everything from the subtle vibrations to the semi-muted sound of the wind whipping past him as the armor tore through the air was his to experience. By comparison, flying a TIE was an exercise in sensory deprivation. And once again, though only for a moment, Rodi felt less like he was using the suit and more like the suit was, in fact, using him.

Slowly moving his wrists, Rodi pulled the armor up and rolled it, putting himself parallel to the ground below him as he felt the vibrations heralding the activation of the suit's chest-mounted gauss repulsor. While nowhere nearly as violently powerful as the ones mounted on his gauntlets and boots, Rodi could still feel a slight compression on his chest in response to the stabilizer's activation, allowing him to stay almost four hundred meters above the ground. Rodi turned his attention to the ground as he eased the suit into a wide and easy circle, and the armor's visual feed zoomed in his squad as they also took off, one after the other. Orion was the second one in the air, followed soon after by Candar and Daven. Alia was quick to join them, and after a few awkward seconds, Pronem finally got his suit in gear and climbed up to meet them all.

"_Well, Admiral,_" said Daven as Pronem finally reached the group, "_looks like he could read the instructions after all._"

"_Big words coming from a guy that hasn't read anything more advanced than a fairy tale holobook._"

Rodi had to avoid snickering at the Army liaison's comeback, as did Alia and Orion. Daven, in spite of his skill, was not particularly intelligent. In fact, it was rumored that he had his father bribe officials in the academy to let him pass his classes at the level he did. And while Rodi himself placed little faith in rumor, it was one that he could easily overlook thanks to his own distaste of the man. Daven had a small mind and a big ego, and both were becoming far too common in the military. Commander Pronem's immediate and just retort was a welcome change from the bowing and scraping that had become all too common when dealing with pilots that had heads big enough to have a gravitational pull of their own.

Daven had been just about ready to fire off some semblance of a retort when Candar put a stop to it.

"_That's enough, both of you. We have a job to do. You two can deal with this back on the ship, but for now I want comm silence from everybody unless it is an _absolute_ emergency. Understood?"_

The Grand Admiral did not wait for the typical barking response before he flew off towards the objective marker. Rodi turned to follow and felt the suit push forward as he moved to form up behind the flight leader. He felt the pressure on the soles of his feet rise as they did on the palms of his hands. He felt the vibrations of the armor as it rocketed through the air. He saw the numbers on the HUD speedometer climb higher and faster. He heard the thrusters grow so loud that even the helmet's audio compensators began to fail at keeping the sound down.

This, Rodi decided, was _flying_.

* * *

The small child ran through the streets of her village, holding a small model Z-95 in her hand as it zipped and ducked through obstacles both physical and imaginary; she gave no thought to the obstacles in her own path, dodging them as effortlessly as her tiny pilot friend moved around asteroids, enemy droid starfighters from the war her grandfather talked about, and the odd fruit stand.

Little Lai'kotara had dreamed of being a pilot ever since she first saw the great metal starship first lift off from her village's landing pad. Though it was only a cargo hauler – bringing fruits, vegetables, livestock, tools, and miscellaneous goods in from the nearby capital of Lessu – it promised to take her beyond this small rock of a world and on to places beyond imagination, even one as active as her own. Her mother had long since stopped trying to quell the thoughts, and had come to terms with her daughter's dream, knowing that it was still too early to make little Lai'kotara aware of all the dangers of space travel, and also knowing that when the time became appropriate to make them known, she would have been resigned enough to not even bother. Her father, however, actively pushed her to learn all she could about starships and space travel, encouraging her to leave Ryloth and find out what made the universe worth living in. It was in her pursuit of knowledge that she discovered the Z-95 Headhunter. And it was then that she decided that she'd take one of her very own, and use it to fly in battles that would make her a legend, like the Kenobi and Skywalker people from her grandfather's battles.

She pushed her lips together and blew out in a staccato fashion, emulating her fighter's blaster cannons and the explosions of enemy fighters whizzing past her as she cleared the village and ran towards the open, dusty plain. The tiny pilot banked to the right, dodging an insect that so willingly took the role of an enemy starfighter. Lai'kotara turned to give chase, leading her on a flight path parallel to the village's edge.

Yes, space was dangerous; cold, black, and unforgiving at the best of times, and filled with blaster fire and people eager to kill the unsuspecting spacer at worst. Even at age six, Lai'kotara knew all that, despite her mother seeming to think otherwise. And yet when she picked up her little toy starfighter and had her daydreams of it being her in the pilot seat, none of that mattered. It was her and her Z-95 against the universe, and little Lai'kotara liked it that way.

After a small dip, the Z-95 rose into the air, its red-and-white color scheme standing out brightly against the twilit sky, much like the six dark shapes flying overhead, leaving white contrails in their wake.

Two of the shapes – not at all unlike primitive rockets at this distance – slowed down behind the pack, while the shapes on the outer edges of the formation peeled away entirely. She saw the two shapes at the front of the formation angle downward, accompanied by an ever-loudening roar that the precocious child had always imagined a starfighter to sound like. Lai'kotara's eyes were fixated on the forms that raced towards her village, so fixated that she was only shaken from her ecstatic reverie by a loud blast from behind her. She turned quickly, and saw what had created the blast; hovering a few meters above the ground was a lone and distant humanoid figure. Though clouded in blinding white light from the waist down, Lai'kotara could see that it was plated in black and gray metal, with the grey bits painted to look like the soldiers that her grandfather always talked about. The shock and speed of it all caused the small Twi'lek girl to shield her eyes, forcing the tiny pilot in her hand into a stall and endure a crash landing in the dirt below her bare feet.

And just as the brightness became bearable and little Lai'kotara brought her arm down from her line of sight, all hell broke loose behind her.

* * *

Rodi hadn't heard any parley. No conditions of surrender. No demand for the release of the Imperial prisoners. Not even a heavy-handed attempt at intimidation. The second Alia and Candar hit the ground, the Grand Admiral opened fire. Circling five hundred meters above the sudden carnage, the suit's optics allowed the quiet pilot to see it all in full detail. Candar's arm guns sent superheated energy all around him, kicking up dust and mowing down enemy combatants.

It had been nothing like this in a TIE fighter. Rodi knew he was killing people with each strafing run, but it was the military; killing people was something every military did, regardless of faction. That had never bothered him. People died every day. Further, some people needed to die, and yet refused to. Rodi had signed on with the Imperial Navy to bring the Emperor's justice to the lawless and the wrathful; to fight and probably kill those that the so-called Force did not deem worthy of death. And while he took no pleasure in the thought of ending another person's life, alien or otherwise, Rodi knew it had to be done. But this was something else entirely. TIE fighters were designed to keep the operator on task to the point that the only viewport was in the front of the craft. Once the pilot completed the run, it was on to the next objective. They were not forced to watch every detail.

But with no sign of anything about to go airborne, it was all Rodi and Orion _could_ do.

* * *

Ferron was immediately in shock. Had that just happened? Had the Grand Admiral just unloaded on civilians? Since the village had been visible, she'd kept a careful eye on it, and had seen nothing to indicate any rebellious activity; no anti-air guns, no visible weapons, no war vehicles, and nothing that could respectably be called a prison, even for non-Human standards. By all accounts, it looked like any other village one might encounter on any number of worlds. Admittedly, she did not have much experience in the way of alien villages and POW camps; the viewport of a TIE craft did not allow for much in the way of sightseeing. But even then, she'd expected that enemy encampments would at least be ready for _some_ type of combat. Some cursory line of defense against the Empire, even if it was a barbed-wire fence and a small minefield.

And preliminary scans had shown neither; the sensors on the Variable Threat Response suit were nothing if not thorough.

A red triangle suddenly popped up on Alia's HUD, corresponding with two shocks to her personal shield generator that left it at 96 % power. Alia spun around to face the cause, seeing a Twi'lek man lining up shots with a rifle. The shot had taken neither metal nor flesh thanks to the armor's shield. But it _had_, however, destroyed any lingering doubt that Alia may have clung to from those first confusing seconds.

Firing on an Imperial servicewoman was enough to warrant a death sentence as far as she was concerned. Raising her left arm, Alia returned fire.

* * *

Daven hadn't waited for the signal.

As soon as he heard blasterfire and saw Ferron's shield meter drop, the man sprang into action. At roughly three hundred meters away from the village center, a good many targets were out of range for his standard weapons. He was in no position for a strafing run, and he wasn't about to waste one of the missiles reserved for large targets for the sake of a few alien bugs. But fortunately for him, there was an answer.

There was clicking and sliding as the modified Z-6 cannon swung into place over his right shoulder.

The several barrels on the gun had barely gotten up to speed before red laser fire lanced out from the weapon, cutting down anything and everything that dared stand in its near-continuous path. The Z-6 rotary blaster cannon was already considered a heavy weapon without the modifications that Stark had made. But _with_ them – with power enough to tear through starfighter shields and armor and a hardening of the barrels to match – it was almost too easy. Duracrete buildings didn't scorch so much as explode upon contact with one of the amped-up bolts, let alone a dozen. And the aliens caught in the line of fire did not fall so much as vaporize into red mist, leaving only burned, scorched meat to be identified and recognized as the scum they had once been.

It made the whole exercised almost too easy. And Daven _loved_ it. Despite the Grand Admiral's firm command of radio silence, the pilot couldn't help but laugh to himself as his raw firepower tore down another building or annihilated another alien. The bastards died, Daven got to see it happen, and it all went along with no more effort than a casual stroll in the park, apart from the occasional round of blaster fire that was easily absorbed into the shields.

What wasn't to love?

* * *

Was that Daven idiot trying to get them all _killed_?

Pronem quickly discovered that taking cover with that maniac lighting up the combat zone was more harmful than beneficial; the duracrete used to construct the small homes did almost nothing against a weapon rated for combat against starships, and it obscured the line of sight between Pronem himself and the lunatic's barrage. At least if he was in the open, he would have ample warning to dodge the stream of laser fire perforating everything in its path, considering the only vocal warning anybody had was Daven's soft laughing.

The Army representative had closed the gap quickly when the shooting began, knowing full well that lines of communication weren't going to be used; the Grand Admiral hadn't told anybody he was going to open fire right from the get-go, and with the blond idiot's trigger-happy manner, everything had gone right to hell. Pronem could tell from his flyover that nobody in the village proper had any real means of escape, and even the ones that did have something to use would have been picked off by Rodi or Orion. So he moved in on foot, letting his armor do most of the work for him, keeping his fire to short bursts as he had been trained to since his weeks in basic. It felt strange for him, not having an actual weapon in his hand. Further, the most complicated vehicle he'd piloted was an AT-PT, which was comparable to Dantari machinery compared to what he was operating now. But it was something the veteran soldier could get used to. Easily.

There was no lining up shots. No leading of the target. Just about everything in the suit was automated, and most of the work was already done. All Pronem had to do was select his weaponry and keep the reticule – guided by his own eyes on the screen, no less – focused on the target, and the armor took care of the rest. It was a much more economical way of fighting, and certainly more effective than the body bags that the Imperial Army considered armor.

And how effective it _was_! Three shots, and a target was down. The radar identified another target closing in fast, and red arrows on the HUD indicated that the shield had taken some light hits. With just a flick of his eyes, Pronem had primed the shotgun on his left arm, and by the time he had raised it, the weapon had discharged and the motion tracker went dead, followed shortly thereafter by the thump of an enemy combatant hitting the dirt. And Pronem hadn't even had to look at the dumb son of a bitch that had tried it. It was then and there that the soldier realized just what a boon that had been; if he had been in that same situation without the suit, he might not have caught it. The line would have been broken to deal with the threat, or worse, he might not have survived. Not with the way the Empire was training its soldiers these days.

Stark had been right; these suits _were_ game-changers. And if they ended up being only half as effective in the long run as they were now, Pronem could have argued that the six suits in operation would be all that was necessary to stomp the Rebel Alliance into the dirt once and for all.

* * *

Watching Pronem work was something to behold for the young and impressionable Orion.

Even though he was far from the methodical precision that Pronem executed the operation, he could not help but look that way when he knew he was right on the Lieutenant Colonel's tail. He had wondered, at first, why an Army soldier had been brought up with a bunch of Navy pilots. And now, more than ever, he knew. Candar was throwing ammunition every which way, Ferron couldn't seem to target worth a damn, and Daven had taken the simplest solution and was opting to vaporize everyone in sight. It was exactly what Orion had expected from pilots trying to be ground-pounders. But Pronem? Pronem was showing them how things got _done_. Short bursts of fire, quick bursts of movement, constant analysis of the situation…it was something to behold, even from half a kilometer in the air.

At first, Orion had agreed with the Grand Admiral's idea that it would take more time to train Army soldiers to fly than it would take Navy pilots to fight. But now, he wasn't so sure. Not by a long shot. With less time (and, if he had been watching closely enough, maybe one sixth of the ammo), Pronem had already matched the bodycount of Candar, Ferron, and Daven put together.

But with a crackle of his helmet's comlink, the spectacle was over.

"_Rodi, Orion_," said the Grand Admiral over the sound of his guns blazing, "_I'm picking up major energy readings not far from here. Probable ship launch. Engage at will._"

"Yes, sir!"

As it turned out, five hundred meters was one hell of a vantage point. Engaging the intertial dampeners, Orion and Rodi brought their suits to full stops to look around for the readings, only to find it some three kilometers from their position. Easy enough for a fighter to make. Even easier for an advanced prototype weapons platform that needed to engage a pair of GR-75 medium transports from escaping with Imperial troops.

"Sir, they might have our guys. Continue engagement?"

"_They're probably already dead, son. Continue engagement._"

Had he still been in a TIE, Orion would have moved to engage. But as it had helped Commander Pronem, and Lieutenant Daven, so too would it help Orion. The Variable Threat Response Platform had just the right kind of response for this situation.

Maintaining a vertical hover, a clasp on the right side of Orion's neck armor slid open. An assembly of metal and lights slid upward, and the young pilot's HUD changed entirely; it disregarded team status and ammunition count and instead focused on whether the new weapon was armed, the distance to the target, and a countdown. There was a whirring from Orion's right shoulder as a light silver cylinder started to roll and whirr with greater speed and louder volume. And after a small ding inside Orion's helmet, a small, dark, bullet-shaped item sprung forward from the assembly and proceeded to fall.

"Parting Gift is live. Hang tight."

No sooner had Orion finished his warning than the bullet-shaped item suddenly screamed as its tail-end erupted with repulsor energy, sending the small missile – barely longer than Orion's own middle finger – rocketing towards the higher transport ship with a speed that Orion had never seen before. He simply hovered there, watching the numbers indicating distance fall faster than the enemy village's morale. Two thousand meters and closing. One thousand meters. Five hundred. Two hundred. One hundred.

The entire bridge column was vaporized, as was much of the ship's dorsal side, the metal singed and reddened to such a degree that it was visible at the suit's maximum optic zoom. One of the engines had outright exploded, and it sent the GR-75 downward, where it collided with the second transport ship trying to escape the bloodbath. Both vessels were sent down to the dusty rock below, where a second or two of contact was all that was needed to send both vessels up in flames.

"Damn. Really hope our guys weren't on those things."

* * *

"_Damn. Really hope our guys weren't on those things._"

There were no guys. There had been no Imperial platoon, nor had there been any Alliance presence on Ryloth that would have warranted the deployment of a full prototype squadron. But this was a village of Twi'leks. Aliens on some barely-hospitable rock in the middle of barely-tolerable space. Nobody in this little spit of a village would be missed. And nobody in it would live to tell the tale of what had happened.

To Candar, that presented something of a problem.

Part of the reason for the rapid deployment of the squadron was to send a message to the Alliance; even with the Death Star destroyed, new weapons were being built every day to find them and destroy them. Sure, the act of destroying an entire village could be spun as cowardly and horrific. But the point wasn't to massacre a village. The point was, so far as Candar was concerned, to show exactly what these suits were capable of. And with every passing second, more fuel was added to the fire. One tiny missile had torn a good chunk out of an otherwise spaceworthy ship. One reasonably small heavy weapon had laid waste to the entire town. And there were at least six of these things. Six people who cared little for morality or conscience. Six well-armored people armed to the teeth. Six walking nightmares for the Rebel Alliance to dread in their restless slumber. It wasn't an execution the Grand Admiral had been looking for, but a demonstration. And it was not a demonstration of the raw power of the Empire's new weapon – Stark's own demonstration had provided an ample preview of that, however flawed it may have been – but of the willingness of those using them to cross whatever lines of morality the rebels themselves had drawn.

Such footage wasn't going to make it to the HoloNet. Candar was going to ensure that the events of today went straight to the Alliance. Fear-mongering with the Alliance and plausible deniability to the public all in one fell swoop. It was the logical decision.

Four minutes after he'd started the carnage, the motion tracker on Candar's suit fell silent. And for the next thirty seconds, there was silence; silence of sound, silence of movement, and silence even of thought as the Grand Admiral saw the day's goal completed. Four minutes to take down a small village. Four minutes for the Alliance to sweat over, analyze, and attempt to use as propaganda for a war they still had a long way from winning. The only living things in the immediate area were all wearing highly advanced suits of armor. And Grand Admiral Candar liked it that way.

"Mission accomplished, people. Let's head home."

Pronem, as if he had something to prove, was the first one to take to the sky. Daven soon followed, with Ferron not far behind him. The Grand Admiral stayed behind, taking one last survey of the area, poring over his work before rolling his shoulders and letting the gauss repulsor engines shoot him into the sky behind his team.

* * *

It was cold. It was never cold in her village.

Little Lai'kotara struggled to keep her heavy eyes open, straining her neck to look at the burned-out homes and the ashen husk that her village had become. Her belly felt warm, though. Her belly and parts of her arm, which had happened when the camouflaged droid had raised its arm. And while she could feel it now, it didn't feel bad. It stung, like how an insect might sting, but it wasn't bad. It was hard to breathe, though. And hard to stay awake.

Lai'kotara felt stupid. If she had just said something, it all might have been avoided. Were the droids angry? Had the people done something wrong? Had _she_ done something wrong? Was this about kissing that boy on the cheek two weeks ago? It was Truth or Dare! Nothing counted in Truth or Dare…

Now the bellyache was really starting to set in.

Straining her neck once more, Lai'kotara turned to where her head had been but a moment ago, looking at a dust-covered item poking out from a pile of rubble. She reached out, fighting the pain in her arm to pick up a broken wing. The Z-95 model it had been attached to was gone. All Lai'kotara had now was a wing; a broken fragment of a broken dream. But it was okay. All of it was okay. She would go to sleep now, and she'd wake up with her mother trying to get her to school on time. She'd wake up and play with that cute boy; that one boy for whom the universal concept of cooties did not apply. Everything would be all right tomorrow. Everything would be okay. All she had to do was take a nap. And with a small sigh and a smaller smile, little Lai'kotara placed the wing of her little pilot friend's starfighter on the ground, closed her eyes, and went to sleep. Sleep, and maybe dream. And she would dream – as she always did – of space.

Space was not the only thing in the universe that was cold, black, and unforgiving. But to a little girl who knew no better, the difference was negligible.


	9. Chapter 9

**AUTHOR'S**** NOTE:**

_Hey guys, let me apologize for two things. First, those of you who've followed and favorited, I want to say how sorry I am for not updating. School's recently kicked in (senior year at university, yee-ha) and the whole process of driving, moving in, catching up with friends, figuring out the class schedule, and keeping up with the already-insane coursework has been a bitch and a half so far as writing goes. Second, I'm really not a fan of how this chapter turned out (though your mileage may vary), and I fully admit that the last couple hundred words or so were just to wrap the damn thing up so I could move on with the story._

_That said, I promise that the story will finish, and I will keep it up. I'll try to update more regularly._

_As always, thanks for reading._

* * *

"I'm sorry, sir. We can't let you place any calls."

Ton slumped in his seat, rubbing his forehead with one hand and swishing a glass of brandy with the other. They hadn't been gone from his skyhook for ten minutes, and already the rebellious soldiers were taking command of his yacht as though they owned it! He'd even flown it out, charted the course, and made the jump to lightspeed for them, and now they were going to tell him what he could and couldn't do with his own property? For a group purportedly out for galactic justice, they certainly didn't present the best image. Didn't they know who he was? Of course they did, Jay hadn't been able to shut up about it since liftoff. And from there, it was all the questions. Yes, he was Ton Stark. Yes, his wealth would be a great asset to the rebellion. Yes, he preferred a Corellian beverage, but that was all due to personal taste and had nothing to do with cultural nepotism. And no – a million times no – he was not going to join the Alliance any longer than the Imperial bloodhounds were on his trail.

And his one question? The _one_ secession he was asking the people taking up space in his top-deck observatory to make for him? Denied.

Ton looked up and took a swig from his drink, his eyes not once easing their cold glare or leaving the strapped soldier that had just denied him a talk with his lawyers. Smug little bastard. He had one of Coronet's richest, most famous citizens by the balls, did he? The idea was laughable. What did he know? What did this young scrub _possibly_ know?

"Unwise? Let me tell you something," Ton said with a slight slur as he stood from his leather-padded chair, "a little something about unwise. Unwise is getting involved with guys like me; guys who could chew you up and spit you out as an afterthought. Unwise is biting the hand that feeds you. Unwise is going out of your way to antagonize a guy – take his medicine, take his ship – and then ask for more handouts because you think 'Hey, he's got money out the ass! Let's ask for even more favors!'. That, right there, that's all unwise."

During the entire exchange, the kid had a look about him that Ton couldn't quite discern; it was either confusion (if the way his eyes kept darting around was any indicator) or anger (if the clenching of his fists had anything to do with it). It was the latter, Ton decided, it had to be. He was right. He was always right when it came to kids like this.

"Perhaps unwise would be to try and call a known associate when all lines of communication are likely tapped."

Ton whipped around to see Ben standing in the doorway of the elevator, his arms folded and his expression one of marked disappointment as he walked into the small panoramic room. With a nod, the two other men in the room made haste towards the small elevator, and in the space of seconds Ton could hear the motors propel the two smug sons of bitches out of sight and out of earshot, allowing him to fully take in the slightly-dampened-by-a-set-of-tinted-viewports sight of hyperspace. And all he had to do was stay conscious through what he already knew was going to be a sad and sorry lecture from the formerly ever-smiling Twi'lek. If even that.

"You know," Ben began, "for someone as smart as you have to be to make the sort of credits that you do, I'm surprised you didn't think of the tapped lines."

"Yeah? And who, _exactly_," Ton retorted, taking another sip of brandy, "said I didn't?"

"You offer up an escape route for a group of known public enemies with barely a word against us, going well out of your way to do so in the process, and only _now_ decide to antagonize someone you've helped? Seems sort of odd."

"I'm a bit of an odd guy, twin-tails."

"And a man," Ben said after a short pause to grimace at the slur, "who makes little sense when inebriated.

"Listen to me," the Twi'lek said, coming to a kneel beside Ton's chair, "nobody's going to argue that your day's been…rougher than most. And given the Empire's control of the media, nobody here can fault you for thinking of us as you do. But if there was ever a time for you to keep an open mind, my friend, now would be the ti-"

"Wait, wait," Ton interrupted, looking away from his drink to stare the brown-skinned alien square in his eyes. "Did…did you just say 'friend'?"

Ben simply closed his eyes and nodded before standing and turning to walk away. If the drunken playboy wanted to get hung up on one word that was meant to show more camaraderie than actual friendship, then nothing else he could say was going to matter. What Stark did after they arrived at the fleet was his business. And if his choice in both words and action persisted, then it was a good bet he was going to get himself killed in spite of what his worrywart of a protocol droid did to counter him. The thought gave Ben no pleasure, but he had learned long ago that some decisions simply were not good ones, and the people making them simply were not going to listen to good sense.

Without a word, Ben left Ton to his increasingly drunken stupor.

* * *

"So, why won't you tell them?"

Peprana sat next to her Ithorian medic on one of the finest sofas she'd ever had the pleasure of sitting in, allowing herself to sink into the leather cushions and indulge in a brief moment of peace as she waited for Ropo to respond. Prior to liftoff, Ton had told her and her crew to make themselves at home, and it was a request – or, given the tone of his voice and the glass of brandy in his hand, perhaps less of a request and more of an order to leave him the hell alone – that she was all too willing to oblige. A smile crept onto her face as she turned to face Ropo, who was keeping with his typical mode of operation and sitting straight as a board.

**Many of these men grew up believing my family and I were monsters. And even though I would like to share the truth with them, they are not ready. They are better off not knowing, and those that suspect already mistrust me.**

"But you're living proof that they're wrong. Half of these guys owe you their lives."

**They owe me nothing, Peprana. And many are not as open-minded as you have been.**

Peprana raised her head to look around briefly, ensuring they were alone, so far as a pair of people could be alone in the main deck of a yacht that could very easily have been a miniature cruise liner. The twins were playing dejarik out towards the bow, Ben was coming off the turbolift and went straight to the nearest of the deck's seats to crash down and sigh, and apart from a few stragglers just talking much as she and Ropo were, most of her men were clearing out Ton's bar with the help of his silver protocol droid, who was all too happy to indulge their thirst and his own talkative programming. If anything was going to interrupt their conversation, it would've had to come from well out of the blue.

"C'mon," Peprana whispered, leaning in close to Ropo, "I thought Jedi were supposed to be fearless."

**And I like to think I am. But your men are not.**

"I think knowing that we have a Jedi Knight on our team will boost our morale big time."

**I must disagree. Some of your men distrusted me simply because I am an Ithorian without a herd, even before the whispers and rumors began. The fact that these men have such notions at all leads me to believe the fear will only increase.**

"But you told me."

**I did not. You simply put me in a position where I would have no choice but to prove that I had trained in the ways of the Jedi.**

"Okay…so I might've suspected it first. So what?"

**Peprana, you are one of the most unassuming women I have ever met. If you could theorize that I was a Padawan before the Empire came to prominence, what stops others in your company from theorizing the same? If you could reach that conclusion, so can they. My meditations and calm demeanor in the midst of a war already seem to serve as incriminating evidence for some. If any of them saw my assistance to Corporal Harth, my secret would be forfeit.**

Not once did Ropo deviate from the calm, measured tone he had spoken in since he had first met the Sand Panthers. Although now, for reasons Peprana couldn't quite place, he seemed sadder than before. It was a side that she hadn't ever seen from the Ithorian medic. Before now, she hadn't even thought it possible. And yet there it was, hidden by a relaxed disposition and a language barrier, yet somehow clear as day to the red-haired leader.

"But…but _why_? I'm sorry, Ropo, I'm just not understanding this."

**Peprana, my dear, think of Mr. Stark.**

"I-…wait, Ton? What about him?"

**He sees us as brigands. As terrorists. And though we both know he is wrong, we must acknowledge that he's not had the chance to see us in any other light. Even now, few in the Alliance remember the Jedi as guardians of peace and justice. Much as Mr. Stark has only been told lies about the true nature of the Alliance, so too have many only known the Jedi as those who tried to overthrow the Senate. Whether we were or not does not matter to them.**

Peprana had opened her mouth to speak before stopping herself. Much as she hated to admit it, the Ithorian had a point; two, _maybe_ three people in her platoon were old enough to have heard about the Jedi before the Empire cranked the spin machine up to eleven. Even if Ropo was a saint, the very title of Jedi Knight had been associated with treason and mistrust for almost two decades, and only the most faithful would have trouble shaking off twenty years of misdirection. And just because Peprana knew the Jedi were good didn't mean that others would as well. Changing their minds would be difficult at best. Likening the whole situation to Stark's mistrust of them made the whole thing clear for her; even though he had offered up his yacht and copious amounts of medicine, it was clear to everyone on board that Stark had only done this out of fear he'd be shot and they'd be taken anyway. He put on a show of begrudging cooperation, sure, but anybody with half a brain cell could tell the man was terrified of them.

And, Peprana had to admit, perhaps not entirely without reason. If she had been in Stark's position – with the sudden influx of insurgent soldiers with only the Empire's nationalized media to tell him what to think of them – would she have been any less scared?

"All the same, though," Peprana continued, finally finding her words, "I think you should come clean to the guys. I'm sure things'll go your way. And if not, you can prove 'em wrong, y'know?"

Ropo's twin vocal systems let forward a great stereophonic sigh. His deep black eyes closed, and his massive head slowly swayed from side to side in an expression of his disagreement.

**If you believe it is so easy,** Ropo said, **then go and convince Stark that the Alliance is not what he thinks.**

Just as Peprana was about to respond, there was a small lurch as the yacht left hyperspace. The pair – and many of those in the yacht's lobby – turned to the large starboard viewports, where the familiar sight of assorted starships and fighter patrols greeted them. Peprana could practically feel the tension in the ship drop. Normally, she had always approached from the side of the fleet, to be more in line with their assigned hangars. But the yacht had warped in from above, and slightly to the side; the result was a much more empowering view of the collected vessels, allowing the weary and worried soldiers a much more reassuring look at their comrades.

For reasons both visual and emotional, Peprana doubted she had ever been happier to see the Alliance fleet.


End file.
